


Human After All

by PunkArsenic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 44,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5608372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkArsenic/pseuds/PunkArsenic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And you two. All you ever do is meddle. I don't think you should be allowed to meddle anymore. Not at all."</p><p>When Adam Young fixed the mess of Armageddon, he decided to fix a few other divine nuisances too. Crowley and Aziraphale were cursed to a fate of an 11 year old English boy's imaginings of the most Out Of The Way situation possible - secondary school. But Adam's patch-up was full of faults and flaws; an origins steeped in mystery; undiscovered powers lying just below the surface; an aching space where the other should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meddling

**Author's Note:**

> Contents Warnings for the entire fic: child abuse from teachers at parts, internalised homophobia, generalised homophobia and homophobic slurs implied. all will be warned for at the beginning of the chapter.
> 
> completed, possible sequel in the works.

**_"And you two. All you ever do is meddle. I don't think you should be allowed to meddle anymore. Not at all."_**  
  


 

* * *

 

 

Anthony Crowley lived alone. He always had, for as long as he could remember - not that he was entirely sure how long that was.

   Somehow, nobody had noticed a child living all on his own in his expensive apartment. He was now sixteen, and faring pretty well for it. Everything had always seemed to go his way, and so he was essentially invisible.

   Nobody noticed because (besides what he chalked up to incredible luck) all the bills were paid on time, and he was always well fed and clothed, thanks to a forever-full bank account.

      Crowley assumed the money was from his parents, wherever they may be. He had no idea; whenever he tried to think back to his origins, all he could remember was an insurmountable terror - as if his world was ending.

     "Grow, you little bastard," he hissed at a trembling hydrangea, while spritzing it with water. Always, before leaving to avoid going to school, he would water his many potted plants, and shower them with encouragement. "And if I come back to see a single leaf on this floor, so help me..."

    Crowley attended a local comprehensive school, although he used the word attend lightly. St Beryl's claimed to be Catholic, but it also claimed to be a fully functional school, so most took its claims with a grain of salt.

     Crowley didn't see the point of attending a school where he could teach the teachers, and knew he could afford far better, but never had the motivation to move. It probably required adults, which he lacked.

    So, he stayed, in his way. For the hours others were at school, Crowley went out. He enjoyed a lavish lifestyle of London restaurants, museums, looking at vintage cars, and other things the average teenager would do were school out of the equation, probably.

     After a time, he would take a train back to his town - while he often dreamt of stealing a car, he supposed even his astonishing ability to slip beneath the radar had its limits. Then, there was one last stop in his day.

     Crowley never knew why, but being surrounded by books always made him feel... strange. It was a feeling some might call safe, or at home, perhaps like the sound of an old friend's voice after a long day - Crowley has never experienced these things, and so had no point of reference. Either way, he always came back to the library.

    That isn't to say he read much. Every day he would take the same book on the history of the Bentley from its shelf and sit at a desk, staring longingly at its many photographs.

   Eventually, _he_ would arrive.

Aaron Ziraphale was St. Beryl's very own snot-nosed goody-two-shoes Jesus-freak. He also happened to be the congregation's vagrant at a renowned and astute monastery. The contrast amused him, in a sad kind of way.

    Aaron passed by the library on his way home, and stopped in. He always had; he adored books. Sometimes he worried he loved books more than he loved God, but he'd never admit so.

     He wasn't quite sure when he'd noticed Crowley at the library, but he supposed it wasn't long after he'd stopped seeing him at school. Soon, they fell into habit.

    Aaron would arrive, at 4 o'clock sharp, and sit beside Crowley. Then, he would read. This would go on for anything from half an hour to after dark; whatever Aaron thought he could get away with.

    Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly brave, Aaron would try to strike up conversation, perhaps about the book he was reading, or about school, but Crowley was less than adept at small talk. If small talk had been among the six O-Levels St. Beryl's offered, Crowley would get a solid G, for Godawful.

    Today, however, Aaron Ziraphale was feeling very brave indeed.

    "You really like cars, huh?"

    Crowley shrugged, not looking up, "Not modern ones."

Aaron blinked. That was three more words than average; a huge success.

    "So you like vintage ones?" He leant forward on the desk.

    "Yeah. Good, old fashioned British cars. I suppose some of the foreign cars these days are good, in their way, but the British ones..." Crowley let out a curse word that made Aaron blush. It was all he could do not to beg God for Crowley's forgiveness on the spot. That would not have gone well, he was sure.

    "Is Bentley your favourite make? You're always reading that same book."

    "Wow, look at Sherlock Holmes."

    "Oh, no, it's not that- Anyone could figure it out, it's quite obvious-"

   Crowley smiled, "I'm being sarcastic."

Aaron smiled. This was going amazingly! He was sure this was more conversation than he'd seen Crowley engage in in four years of acquaintance.

    Crowley coughed, fidgeting in his seat, and Aaron realised he'd been staring. He pushed up his glasses and fiddled with the edges of his book. After a pause, he asked, "Why do you always wear sunglasses?"

     Crowley paused. It wasn't that there was anything exceptionally strange about his eyes - but that their normality felt so very strange to him. They were black, and quite round, and quite handsome. They didn't feel like his own.

    That didn't really explain the sunglasses; nobody else noted his eyes. He just had a compulsion to wear them, as if by habit.

    "They look cool," he said.

    "I think they make you look like a bit of a prat," Aaron admitted. He hadn't meant to say that, or not so bluntly, but he had expected a slightly less obnoxious response; a slightly better reason.

   "Well," Crowley looked up, "I'm sure I'll take your opinion into account next time. Where are your glasses from? The NHS or a charity shop?"

      "Now that's low!" Aaron raised his voice, and then, remembering he was in a library, whispered for good measure, "These glasses were very expensive and took me a very long time to save up for!"

      Crowley smirked, closing his book. He got up. "It's getting dark, you should get back to the convent before they start _praying_ for you."

    As he walked away, Aaron watched him, and grumbled, "It's a monastery, you halfwit."

    "Oh well, close enough," Crowley threw back.

   Aaron sat at the desk, alone, for a while. He was slightly stunned; he had not expected Crowley to be quite like that; he'd always had a melodramatic habit of expecting the best of people, and then getting his hopes dashed irrevocably. He thought perhaps Crowley was a misunderstood, but ultimately kindhearted loner, who he could befriend and bring towards the path of honesty.

     Yeah, right.

 He tutted. Crowley had left his book just lying there. He picked it up, and was about to return it to its shelf, when he was struck by an idea. A brilliant, albeit rather dishonest, idea.

 

* * *

 

 

“Lost something?”

Crowley sighed. He had scoured the shelves of the library for an hour now, with no sign of his book. He wished he didn’t care - he really didn’t understand why he had to care so bloody much - but he did. It was really the only book on the subject in the place, and this was more than that; this was a matter of routine; habit - and, regrettably, sentiment. Damnit.  
  
    He turned, “What’s it to you, Ziraphale?”  
  
    Aaron shrugged, “Just being friendly. Can’t you find the book?”  
  
   Crowley raised his eyebrows, “You’re up to something. I hope you’re not trying to be subtle about it, either, because you’re failing so badly it’s annoying. Like, really, I’m pretty sure I can _smell_ your smugness.”  
  
    “Oh, really?” Aaron smiled, “Well, you know, if you don’t want to lose track of a library book, the best thing to do is borrow it out.” He turned on his heel, and began walking away. He counted under his breath.  
  
     One… Two…

It was really just a book. He could buy fifty copies of the same book. And then have a full course meal at the Ritz on the way home. And then still not feel the dent.  
  
    Three...  
  
This wasn’t about the book. Crowley tapped his finger against the shelf, frustrated. Not only with this smug, self important, ridiculous little snot - but with himself, for ever giving a toss.  
  
    Four…

Just a book.

   Aaron heard the fast footsteps behind him and grinned. Five. A hand grabbed him by the arm and tugged him back, and he faltered for a second. The weather outside the library was abysmal, and with the wind on his side, Crowley looked downright diabolical.  
  
   “Can I help you?” Aaron jutted out his chin, trying to hide the shudder that threatened to overwhelm him.  
  
    “Where’s the book, Aaron?”  
  
   Aaron shrugged, “What do you care? It’s just a library book.” He winced; Crowley’s nails dug into his arm as he twisted.  
  
    Aaron tugged himself from Crowley’s grasp, straightened his blazer, pushed up his glasses, and then looked at him, “Follow me.”  
  
    He started at a brisk pace up the road, and Crowley followed him closely. He knew he was getting too into this; were he calmer he’d probably be able to let the entire situation be. Anger is terrible for judgement. At the first turning, he grabbed the scruff of Aaron’s blazer, hissing, “Don’t try to run on me.”  
  
    Aaron rolled his eyes, “What would be the point of that? Really. Are you going to walk with me, like that? On a busy street?”  
  
    Crowley looked around, huffed, and released Aaron, who smiled. Briefly. “Hey- Hey! What are you doing?”  
  
   Crowley had linked arms with him. He shrugged, “Well, it’s far less conspicuous, isn’t it?”  
  
    Aaron narrowed his eyes, starting to continue walking, “A bit close,”  
  
   “Girls do it all the time.”  
  
   “We’re not girls.”  
  
   “Coulda fooled me. Everyone knows you’re gayer than a tree of monkeys on-”  
  
   “Laughing gas. Yes. I’ve seen the graffiti.” He scowled, “It’s not true.”  
  
   Crowley turned to him, smiling so wide it was hard to tell if it was a smile or a frown, “I’m sure.” He tightened his hold, “Just get this over with, laughing gas.”  
  
     Aaron sighed and quickened his pace. The sooner they reached the park, the better.  


* * *

 

  
“Heaven forgive me,” Aaron muttered, as he pulled the book from where he had hidden it under a bush. He removed the plastic bag and folded it, tucking it away in his pocket.

   “Ah, good,” Crowley reached out to grab the book, but before he could Aaron pulled it from reach.

   “Ah ah ah! Not so fast, Crowley!” He walked backwards, holding the book out behind him, until he reached the riverside. All that stood between the book and a complete soaking was a few of Aaron’s plump fingers.  
  
    Crowley moved forward, and Aaron waved the book further away. He stepped back, holding up his hands, “Okay, so, is this supposed to be blackmail?”   
  
   “Well, I-” Aaron stammered, “I wouldn’t call it- There’s a-” Crowley raised his eyebrows, and Aaron sighed. “Yes.”   
  
     “Look at that, the angel’s got horns.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, “Alright, angel, what do you want? If you’re trying to blackmail me for drugs, then I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person, but I can point you in the right direction.”   
  
     Aaron scowled, “Why can’t you just be a _normal_ miscreant? Why do you always have to talk like a fudging bond villain on a power trip? It’s so obnoxious!”   
  
    Crowley studied him. “‘Miscreant.’”   
  
 Aaron shook his head, “Whatever. I’ll get right to it. Our mock exams are coming up.”   
  
  “Are they?” 

  “Yes, they are. And if you don’t come to school to take them, then things will be very bad for you.”  
  
   “Will they?”  
  
  “Yes! You won’t have any predicted grades, since you’ve never shown up anyway, so you won’t be able to get any jobs! Or apply for any colleges, or apprenticeships, or anything!”  
  
  “Won’t I?”  
  
 “Stop asking such silly questions!” Aaron stamped his foot, and temporary lost balance. He wobbled about on one foot, waving his arms in the air. “No! No!” He screeched, when Crowley stepped forward, “I’m fine!” He found his footing, and thanked God. Out loud. Crowley snickered.  
  
    Aaron had never heard anyone actually snicker, not in real life. It was infuriating. “While perhaps,” he continued, “What I’m doing might be considered morally less than ideal from a purely objective third-party viewpoint-”  
  
     “Cut to the point.”  
  
  “You’re going to go to school. Or the book is done for.”

Crowley stood there, hands in his pockets, utterly still and totally unreadable. Then he laughed. “You really think I give that much of a shit about some book?”  
  
    “I thought perhaps I could convince you to listen to reason. You can’t always coast through life, Crowley, one day it will come back to bite you.”  
  
   “Yeah, and you’re a satanist. I can look out for myself, Aaron, you don’t have to worry about me. You don’t even know me.”  
  
    Aaron’s brow knitted, and he tilted his head, “I’m not a satanist, though.”  
  
  “Yeah,” Crowley nodded, “That’s the point. Are we done here?”  
  
  “Uh,” Aaron raised his voice, waving the book about, “You really sure you don’t care about this book?”  
  
    “Positive,” Crowley turned to walk away.  
  
   “I don’t know. You seem to care about it an awful lot. You’ve probably given me a bruise, you followed me all the way here, letting yourself be seen with _me_ like _that-_ ”  
  
   Crowley shook his head, “Nobody sees me.” He turned his head to look at Aaron. He was calmer now, and amused by the sight of the short, lardy boy, in full school uniform, waving a book over a river. He wished he had a camera with him. “You do realise, if I agree to your blackmail, I lose, right?”  
  
    Aaron raised his eyebrows, “Do you?”  
  
   “Yes.”  
  
  “ _I_ think, in fact, that you lose if you walk away.”  
  
  “Oh yeah?” Crowley took a step towards him, “What makes you think that?”  
  
  “I think you’re scared. Scared of realising you’ve squandered your time on this Earth. How are you supposed to know what you can do, if you never try? If you always let your fear get the better of you. You’re just a coward, Anthony Crowley.”  
  
   “I could push you in right now, you do know that, right?” Crowley hissed through gritted teeth.  
  
   Aaron smiled, allowing himself a triumphant little jig, “Then why don’t you?”  


The smug little bastard.  


  Crowley sighed, stepping back, “Get away from the edge, you idiot.”  
   
 “Is that a deal, then?”  
  
 He shrugged, “You think I can’t do it? You think I’m scared? Fine. I’ll play your stupid little game. I’ll go to school, and I’ll take these exams, and when I pass with flying colours while barely lifting a finger, we’ll see who’s the coward.”

   “Oh, brilliant!” Aaron hugged the book to his chest, “Father always said, within every person, no matter how bad they may seem, is a spark of-”  
  
   “I can still push you in.”  
  
  “Right. Well, I’ll see you on Monday, then, shall I?” Aaron held out his hand for Crowley to shake.  
  
    Crowley turned on his heel and walked away.  
  
   “Oh, and Crowley!” Aaron called out, unphased, “There’s a school uniform policy against, among other things, sunglasses.”  
  
     Anthony Crowley let out a long-suffering sigh; this was going to be no less than hell.


	2. St. Beryl’s Comprehensive Catholic College of Secondary Education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, look at that!” Aaron tugged the timetable from Crowley, walking with a skip in his step down the main corridor of the school, “You’re in my form! That means we have all our lessons, and registration period, together! You’ll love our form, they’re-” he paused, dropping the skip. He turned to Crowley, forcing a smile, “They’re interesting.”
> 
> Form 5B6 was nothing special - quite the opposite; they were the blandest, and most generic batch of 15-30 16 year olds at a dead-end school that St. Beryl’s had ever seen (the number fluctuated depending on how many students decided to turn up. On average, it was about 20.) Crowley sat with his feet on the desk at the back of the leaky, damp, pungent fabricated cabin that tried to pass itself off as a classroom, and focused on ignoring Aaron’s droning.
> 
> \--
> 
> Crowley's first Monday, in which he meets his form tutor, is psycho-analyzed, and drives Aziraphale (Aaron) up the wall.

  St. Beryl’s Comprehensive Catholic College of Secondary Education didn’t have much of a uniform policy to speak of, mainly because they couldn’t afford it, and couldn’t afford staff who cared enough to enforce such a thing; there was a uniform, but students could turn up in anything relatively modest and vaguely Catholic - Which has often raised the question ‘what does a Catholic look like?’ at PTA meetings. (Nobody could ever answer the question, because the last Catholic to attend St. Beryl’s PTA meetings had quit after deciding satanism had more respect for the field of geography.)  
  
     The uniform rules at St. Beryl’s came down to two fundamental questions: ‘Is it illegal?’ and ‘Can I get away with it?’ - If the answer to the latter was yes, then nobody cared enough to argue. If the answer to the former was no, the argument wouldn’t be hard to win anyway.  
  
      Obviously, Aaron Ziraphale was always seen in full and pristine uniform, except for non-uniform days, which happened twice a year, when he wore what was essentially a recolouring of the school uniform, but with a looser collar and more tartan.  
  
   Crowley, ever happy to be Aaron’s antithesis, showed up to school on monday looking like something of an enigmatic and charming celebrity, who had made his fame by being the world’s youngest and most obnoxious lawyer - one with a penchant for snakeskin. He squinted into the harsh light of early November, and scoured the courtyard.  
  
    He didn’t quite remember when school started, so he hoped that the fact that students littered the benches dotted around the expanse of drab concrete courtyard was a sign he had guessed right.  
  
    “Oh, there you are!” He had guessed right. Aaron bounced over to Crowley and clapped a hand on his back.   
  
    Crowley kept his focus on the broken windows of the west block, and grimaced, “Don’t touch me.”  
  
   Aaron laughed, edging away, “You’re a bit late, I’m afraid. Usually, I’d say you should be here around seven-”  
  
     “Has the bell gone?” Crowley turned to look at him.  
  
     “Well… no. But the early bird catches the worm, you know!”  
  
 Crowley looked him up and down, then said, “So, like, what do we do?”  
  
   “For now, I suppose essentially we wait. You could get breakfast at the canteen, or do some homework. Personally, I like to get to the library and fit in some light reading before class,” he smiled, “Nice and warm in there.”  
  
    “I kind of meant in general. I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve set foot here since third year,” he looked around again, “and I remember jack shit.”  
  
    Aaron shook his head, folding his arms, “There’ll be none of that potty mouth around here, or you’ll get detention! Which is just spending more time at school, which sounds like the opposite of what you want, so I’d follow the rules if I were you.”  
  
    “Well,” he flashed him a cold smile, “Let’s thank G... y’know- whatever - that you’re not.”  
  
   Aaron frowned, then shook off the confusion, “Well, anyway, I suppose you’ll need a timetable. Shall I show you to the office?”  
  
    “Lead the way,” Crowley sighed, “Again.”

 

* * *

  
  


“Oh, look at that!” Aaron tugged the timetable from Crowley, walking with a skip in his step down the main corridor of the school, “You’re in my form! That means we have all our lessons, and registration period, together! You’ll love our form, they’re-” he paused, dropping the skip. He turned to Crowley, forcing a smile, “They’re interesting.”  
  
     Form 5B6 was nothing special - quite the opposite; they were the blandest, and most generic batch of 15-30 16 year olds at a dead-end school that St. Beryl’s had ever seen (the number fluctuated depending on how many students decided to turn up. On average, it was about 20.) Crowley sat with his feet on the desk at the back of the leaky, damp, pungent fabricated cabin that tried to pass itself off as a classroom, and focused on ignoring Aaron’s droning.  
  
     “So, you see, we have registration so we know who’s here, and to give out important announcements. Our form tutor is there to help us, although…” Aaron glanced at their designated form tutor, one Mr. B, head of PE and deputy head of the school. He was currently passed out at his desk; monday hangovers were excruciating. “I wouldn’t recommend getting any hopes up.”  
  
     Crowley drummed his long fingers against his knee, “How long until these exams?”  
  
    Aaron smiled, “I’m glad you brought that up! The O-Levels we take are maths, english - that’s actually two, but taught as one - science, religious studies, and-”  
  
    “Oh, great.”  
  
  “Let me finish! _And_ French, which I’m afraid you may struggle with, as it requires long hours of dedication to learn a language, and you have put in exactly none.” The smirk on Aaron’s face was anything but afraid.  
  
    Crowley shrugged, “Hey, five outta six, that’s not bad. Who needs French, anyway.”  
  
    Aaron frowned, “You’ll really give up that easily? You’re not even going to _try_ French?”  
  
    “You said it yourself, Aaron,” Crowley pushed back his chair, “I’ve skipped the lessons; there’s no hope.”  
  
    “Now hold on a second! That is _not_ what I said! Twisting my words like that is a very nasty thing to do, and it just says something about your character, Anthony.”  
  
   “Oh yeah?” Crowley extended his toes, leaning back so far on his chair that any normal person would have lost balance by now. He folded his arms, “What’s it say?”  
  
    “That you’re afraid, of course. You know what it is you can do, and so to preserve that you have ruled off trying anything new, or risking putting yourself in a situation where you might have your abilities challenged. That’s why you skip school, that’s why you’re so cold, and that’s why you’ve already given up on French. You’re terrified of failure.”  
Crowley raised his eyebrows, pushing his chair back and forth.  
  
   “And Essentially,” Aaron continued, “This is because you have exceptionally low self esteem.”  
  
   There was a clatter loud enough to wake mr. B, who promptly began yelling at a pair of students tussling by the window. Crowley struggled to sit up off the floor while laughing hysterically. He rubbed his elbow and grinned up at a bemused and disgruntled Aaron, “Low self esteem? Really? That’s the best you got?” He stood, and brushed off his jacket, grimacing at the thought of the last time that floor had been cleaned, “Angel, I have self esteem falling out my butt.”  
  
      Aaron folded his arms, scowling, “Well, you may say that, but that doesn’t make it true! I’ve been reading, you know, and you display all the signs! I can read you, Anthony Crowley, like a book! One with really big type, and pictures!”  
  
    Crowley leant against the desk, descending into another fit of laughter. He mimicked Aaron’s voice, bobbing his head about in imitation, then carried on laughing. The laughter petered out, and he nudged him, “Oi, is it a pop-up book?” He doubled over laughing again, while Aaron sat, watched him, and stewed.  
  
   “I really don’t think it’s that funny,” he grumbled.  
  
   “OI!” A bright red voice reminiscent of a bee-sting shocked Crowley’s back straight. Aaron smiled. “Some of us,” Mr. B shouted, as he stormed his way to the back of the room, “Have a bloomin’ headache.” He grabbed Crowley by the shoulder, wrenching him around to face him, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to have a bit of consideration?”  
  
    Crowley tried his best to stay cool, while in reality he was sure the closest he had ever come to this kind of terror at his first year compulsory communion. He thanked… well, he thanked _somebody_ , that he had an impeccable poker-face.  
  
    “I don’t know, sir, let me know if you ever find her to ask.”  
  
Mr. B ground his teeth, the rusty cogs of his brain working to find an appropriate reaction to such impertinent cheek. They they stopped, and started turning another way, “Wait, you’re not in my class.”  
  
    Crowley feigned surprise, “Oh, aren’t I? I’m sorry,” he stood up, “Must’ve been a mistake, I’ll just be off-”  
  
   “Wait!” Aaron stood up, “I think you’ll find, sir, Anthony _is_ in this form. It’s just that, well, he’s been _away_ for a while. Look him up on the register, Anthony Crowley, C-R-O-W-L-E-Y.”  
  
    Mr. B considered the student, and then slouched back to his desk, where he began rummaging through drawers and stacks of paper for the register.  
  
   Crowley, still somewhat shellshocked, picked up his chair and sat down, “Um, kudos?”  
  
   Aaron shrugged, “Oh, it’s nothing. That’s Mr. B, head of PE, assistant head of everything, and our form tutor. He’s…” he frowned, chewing his lip, “An acquired taste.”  
  
   “I hope I never acquire it then…”  
  
 “Yeah…” Aaron sighed, resigning himself to agreement, “Other, less mature and respectful students, call him Beelzebub. I think it sounds like his surname, or something. I don’t think they actually know who Beelzebub is, they just got it from some cartoon or another.” He rolled his eyes.  
  
    Crowley smirked, “So what, this is Hell, and he’s prince of it?”  
  
  Aaron scratched his chin, thinking, “I don’t know whether or not that’s blasphemous to say… and it’s definitely rude… but… fudge it, yeah, basically.”

 

* * *

 

 

To the relief of both Crowley and Aaron, no other teachers bothered them for the rest of the day - in fact, not a single member of staff paid much attention attention to them, or anyone.  
  
      Aaron sighed, tapping his foot as he stood in the doorway to English (period 2, situated in a small classroom next to the toilets of the West Block. Half the windows were boarded up, and the lights flickered.) Crowley leant forward into the room, wrinkling his nose, “Well… it could always be worse, right? What are you waiting for?”  
  
     Aaron finished scanning the room, and then breathed a sigh of relief, “There’s some bad sorts in this class, but luckily, none of them turned up today.” He made his way to a table at the front, where two gangly students were huddled around a trading card game.  
  
    Crowley followed him, trying not to breathe, “Yeah, it’s so great that some poor kids are missing out on this oh so _valuable education_ of theirs, real pillar of morality, you are.”  
  
    “Oh, don’t you get all high and mighty with me, mister!” Aaron snapped, sitting down and setting out his planner, exercise book, revision guide, and entire folder of stationary all kept in their own little pockets in perfect order at all times. “You’re no angel yourself, remember.”  
  
    Crowley sat down on the desk in front of him and smiled at Aaron, tugging a pencil from its pocket and tossing it in the air. He caught it, and inspected it, “Hey, uh, do you have any spare paper?”  
  
   Aaron sighed and pushed up his glasses, “This is going to be harder than I originally thought. Sit down, Crowley, I’ll find you an exercise book.”  
  
   “But I am sat,” Crowley leant back, spreading his hands across the table.  
  
   “On a chair!” Aaron tugged Crowley’s arm away and he fell back on the table, “On a blooming chair, you idiot.”  
  
     Crowley shook his head, “There’s got to be something in the Bible about calling your neighbours idiots.”  
  
    “And I’d love to hear more about your informed opinions on the Bible once you’ve sat your butt down on a chair, like a normal person.”  
  
     “Well, since you asked so nicely.” Crowley sat up, swivelled around on the desk, and sat down in the seat beside Aaron. “So, English…”  
  
    “Is divided up into three exams; one for language, two for literature. The language…” Crowley leant on the desk, ignoring the explanation. Surely English can’t be that hard; it’s just words. He was good with words. Besides, how could he be expected to focus when at that very moment there were three fights going on, one of which was between two kids who looked for all appearances as if they could be knocked dead by a gust of wind, all while cards with drawings of brightly coloured fictional monsters flew about everywhere. It was hugely entertaining - and also very loud. “... reading a book.”  
  
    “Huh?” Crowley turned back to Aaron, “What book?” He sat up.  
  
   Aaron folded his arms, “You haven’t been paying attention. The book is called Lord of the Flies, and you need to have it memorised, cover to cover, before the exam.”  
  
   Crowley nodded slowly, “Easy,”  
  
  “Luckily, that exam is only in the- sorry, what?”  
  
  Crowley smiled, “Come on, it’s hardly like they’re asking us to memorise a telephone directory. Now that? That would be hard.”  
  
   “You also have to analyse it,” Aaron scowled. Crowley shrugged. “Within a time limit.” Crowley shrugged again. Aaron hit the table, “How can you be so nonchalant? This is the most important time of our lives! If you don’t take this seriously, I promise you, you will pay for it.”  
  
    “I am taking this seriously,” Crowley leant on the desk again, propping himself up with one hand, “I’m just also being realistic.”  
  
     Aaron tried to scowl him down for a moment, hoping to grasp a decent response from the air. He turned back to his book, “Well, we’ll see. Anyway, as I was saying, that exam is not until the summer. Really, we need to focus on the language paper. And you cannot just breeze through this one; it’s all about technique.”  
  
     “Sure…” The classroom chaos once again caught Crowley’s attention, and he set himself to trying to figure out the rules of the trading card game.  
  
   Aaron pushed a lined sheet, and a cutout from a newspaper article his way, “See how you do with this.”  
  
    Crowley tore his eyes from the furious fight for dominance amongst the pieces of card, and set pencil to paper. Aaron smiled.

 

* * *

  
  
“I was distracted.” Crowley stabbed his chips with the little wooden fork; splinters were left behind. He didn’t really care; the chips were soggy, lukewarm, and had the flavour of cardboard that had taken a dip in the sewer.  
  
    Aaron nodded, “Well, at least your handwriting was legible. Just about.”  
  
  Crowley scowled, “Who needs handwriting anyway? Nothing important is handwritten. Nothing important has been handwritten since, like, the Georgians.”  
  
   “You got all the spelling and grammar marks.”  
  
  Crowley looked up, “One. I got one, out of six.”  
  
    Aaron smiled sympathetically, “Could have been zero. It was only a practice, we can work on it.”  
  
    Crowley stared at him, “Wipe that smirk off your face, laughing gas.”  
  
    Aaron turned away, “I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
   Crowley leant forward across the wobbly picnic bench, “I bet you rigged that, just to shake me off. I’m not losing this bet that easily.”  
  
   “Oh, so it’s a bet now?”  
  
   “Well, yeah, basically. So well done, Aaron, you’ve got blackmail, _and_ gambling on your card now. And those glasses are probably some kind of sin, too.”  
  
    Aaron turned around, “If this is a bet, what are the stakes?” Crowley shrugged. “Well, given that if you fail these exams you’ve already suffered enough, I won’t put any more pressure on. That seems fair.”  
  
    Crowley leant back, “And when I pass?”  
  
  “Well, that’s enough of a reward in itself, too.”  
  
  Crowley rolled his eyes, “You’re so boring.”  
  
  Aaron folded his arms on the table, “Well, what do you suggest, mr life of the party?” Crowley turned to his chips, stabbing them, “Crowley?”  
  
    “I’m thinking.”  
  
 Aaron checked his watch, and sighed, “Well, while you’re thinking, we should get to class now if we want to avoid the rush.” He got up, and walked towards the central tower.  
  
    He turned around and walked back, grabbing Crowley by the shoulder, “You really want to avoid the rush.”  
  
    “Hey, hey, hey!” Crowley tugged away, “Expensive coat! Fuck!” He adjusted his coat, looked around, and then shrugged, throwing his chips under the bench.  
  
   Aaron paused, tempted to pick up the litter. He walked away. Hopefully the rats would clear it up soon enough. He didn’t hesitate, however, to reprimand Crowley for littering.  
  
   “If you cared so much, you’d pick it up.” Crowley shoved open the heavy door to the stairwell, “Where are we going, again?”  
  
    Aaron sniffed, brushing past Crowley, “Maths.”  
  
    “Woo-ie.” Crowley followed Aaron up the stairs, careful not to touch the inner railing, lest he face a rain of spit from the much-neglected art block 3 floors up.


	3. You Didn't Have to Do That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, wait!” Speaking of regulars. Aaron ran in front of Crowley and doubled over, panting. He pointed at Crowley, “Long legs,” he panted, “Not fair.”  
>  Crowley waited while Aaron caught his breath, laughing quietly. Eventually, Aaron regained himself, and stood up straight. He frowned at Crowley, then started walking, “Well, come on then.”  
>  Crowley followed him, tilting his head, “Uh, where?”
> 
> \--
> 
> day one: a success?

Four hours later, the school-day was finally over, and Crowley was unsure he had ever felt this tired, fed up, and hungry. He dragged his feet across the school to the front gate. St. Beryl’s was divided into three parts; the West Block, the Tower, and the porta-cabins on the east end of the premises, furthest from the front gate, and the place of Crowley’s fifth period.    


      He surveyed the buildings as he walked past, noting how he hated each one. The porta-cabins were an accurate fabrication of hell, only frozen over. The tower had a big metal cross bolted to its side, giving a comfortable perch for the seagulls to perch and cover the entire wall in faeces. The West Block was, actually, alright - when you looked past the smell, and the broken glass, and the dry rot. Crowley smiled bitterly to himself; he almost hated the place like a regular.   


    “Hey, wait!” Speaking of regulars. Aaron ran in front of Crowley and doubled over, panting. He pointed at Crowley, “Long legs,” he panted, “Not fair.”   


   Crowley waited while Aaron caught his breath, laughing quietly. Eventually, Aaron regained himself, and stood up straight. He frowned at Crowley, then started walking, “Well, come on then.”   


Crowley followed him, tilting his head, “Uh, where?”   


Aaron threw him a smile, “The library, of course!”  


Crowley sighed, “I’m tired.”  


Aaron slowed, looking up at him, “You’re not going to the library?”   


“I wasn’t planning on it,” Crowley shook his head.   


Aaron stopped and blinked rapidly, trying to process this, his eyebrows converging, “But you  _ always  _ go to the library.”   


“Like I always skip school, yeah. Now I just want to go home.” He watched Aaron’s face phase through confusion, irritation, and rest on dejection. Crowley sighed, “You know what, there’s not actually any good TV ‘til primetime, so I don’t actually have anything to do, so… whatever.”   


Aaron lifted his head, “You mean you’ll come to the library?” Crowley nodded, and Aaron beamed, trooping out the front gate, “Good! It’s only a short walk from here, twenty minutes tops.”   


Crowley grabbed Aaron’s blazer to slow him down, walking beside him, “Wait, you walk?”   


Aaron gave him a condescending look, “Of course I do. It’s too close to justify wasting money on public transport. And it’s quite scenic.”   


Crowley raised his eyebrows; the area surrounding St. Beryl’s was not much prettier than the school itself. He hailed a taxi at the next opportunity, and shoved Aaron in before he could protest.

 

* * *

  
  


“You didn’t have to do that,” Aaron muttered as they got out of the taxi at the library. He smiled at Crowley, “It was very good of you-”   


“My feet were tired,” Crowley muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets and hurrying into the library.   


He looked through the shelves for his book, which was still missing. Aaron had already sat down at their usual desk and taken out a book, which Crowley pulled from his hands, “Where’s the book?”   


“Ah, well see, it wouldn’t be very effective blackmail if I gave up the means before getting the ends.” He smiled up at Crowley, “You get it back when you complete your mock exams.”   


Crowley stood, holding Aaron’s book and a death glare. Aaron shuffled uncomfortably under it, “May I have my book back, please?” No response. “Look,” Aaron reached into his bag and pulled out a copy of Lord of the Flies, “Read this, okay? You’ll need to read it at some point, anyway.”   


Crowley maintained his glare for a moment, and then slouched into a chair. He tossed Aaron’s book across the desk, and took the copy of Lord of the Flies, sighing as he flicked through the pages. Aaron stretched across the desk to reach his book, which only resulted in it falling off the desk. He huffed and climbed under the desk, picking it up, and finally returning to his reading.   


Crowley looked up, bored, “Hey, this piggy kid’s just like you.”   


Aaron frowned into his book, “Very funny, how original. He’s actually the book’s voice of reason, so I accept your most gracious compliment.”   


Crowley pulled a face, “I think he’s annoying.”   


“Of course  _ you  _ do,” Aaron huffed. Crowley snickered. “You don’t seem a big fan of reason.”   


Crowley nudged him, “I am a teenager. Like, there’s got to be limits to how much reason any teenager can stand, right? That’s why nobody’ll sell us car insurance.”    


Aaron thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement, “I suppose that is true for  _ most  _ teenagers.”   


“You think yourself the exception, huh?”   


“I know myself to be the exception.”   


Crowley rolled his eyes, turning back to the book, “At least you’re not quite as annoying as Piggy.”   


Aaron looked up, and smiled. That was likely as close as Anthony Crowley came to giving a compliment. He returned to his book with warm cheeks and a sort of lightness.   


They read in silence together for a while longer, until Crowley yawned and stood up. He handed the book back to Aaron, who shook his head, “That’s alright, you should keep reading it. You can return it at the end of the year.” He put his own book away in his bag and stood up. He smiled at Crowley, and then started for the exit.   


“Hey, Ziraphale,” Crowley said, and Aaron stopped and turned, “How far do you have to walk from here to your home?”   


He shrugged, “I don’t know, something like twenty minutes?”   


Crowley sighed and shook his head. He walked up to Aaron and held out roughly enough money for a taxi home, “Get a bloody bus pass.”   


Aaron beamed, “You know, Crowley, as horrible as you may try to appear, you just can’t help that spark of-”   


Crowley pulled the money away, “Do you want this, or not?”   


Aaron nodded, accepted the money, and then left. As the glass door closed behind him, he smiled back at Crowley, but he was busy trying to fit the Lord of the Flies into his coat pocket.   


On his journey home, Aaron Ziraphale’s warm feeling was not only due to the comfortable taxi; he was sure that he had found an unlikely friend in Anthony Crowley. The  thought was exciting - He’d never had a friend before, let alone one so… strange.


	4. It's In the Book of Jedediah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley smirked, “It’s in the book of Jedediah.”  
> Aaron ran his hands through his hair, talking through gritted teeth, “That doesn’t exist!”  
> Crowley sat forward, feigning offence, “Tell that to Jedediah!”
> 
> \--
> 
> Crowley actually turned up for another day. Wow!

Aaron waited for Crowley on Tuesday morning underneath the depressed weeping willow that stood outside the front gate, although it would better suit the title ‘snivelling willow’ or ‘eternally rueing the curse we call life willow.’ He leant against the trunk, tapping his fingers on the bark and watching the slow stream of students narrowly avoiding getting hit by cars as they poured from the battered red busses that carted them to and fro.  
  
“Um, are you alright?” Crowley’s voice came from behind Aaron, who jumped, and turned around. Crowley was looking down at him, bemused. “You look all skittish.”  
  
Aaron shook his head, pushing off from the tree, “Just an end of unit test today in maths, probably… I mean, if sir remembers. Which is about fifty/fifty, really.” He started walking, “... sixty/forty.”  
  
Crowley followed him, “Well, I hope it’s not on probability, because then it looks like you’re fucked.”  
  
Aaron huffed, the frown he threw Crowley turning into a smile, “I was worried you wouldn’t turn up. You hated yesterday.”  
  
Crowley nodded, “I did. It was Hell. Worse than Hell. But,” he smiled coldly at Aaron, “I won’t let you win so easily.”  
  
Aaron dropped his smile, rolling his eyes, “I admire your determination,” he grumbled, heavy with sarcasm.  
  
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Crowley elbowed him, “It’s only day two. Of… how long?”  
  
“Two weeks until mocks, which last a week.”  
  
“Day two of…” Crowley paused, doing the maths in his head, “21.” He sighed, and followed Aaron to class, determined to get tuesday over with.

 

* * *

  


There was no test in maths, so instead Aaron tried to explain algebraic fractions to Crowley, who found the whole thing irritating and took every opportunity to crack a joke about how terrible mathematicians must be at spelling. Aaron didn’t understand the jokes, despite Crowley’s desperate efforts to explain, and eventually got fed up and bent so low over his exercise book that he didn’t have to look at Crowley, working by himself.

Crowley sat back, looking around. He and Aaron were in a front corner of the room, next to a filing cabinet that people kept walking up to and stealing paper, to throw or draw on or turn into paper planes.

The calamity of the classroom had grown tiresome some time around period 3, yesterday, when Crowley had to dodge flying spitballs and pieces of gum. He yawned as his attention weaved in and out of the many conversations in the room, each one shouted to be heard over the others. Each one was as boring and alien to him as the next, and eventually his attention turned to Aaron.

Their interactions had, until very recently, been limited to brief words exchanged and inconsequential glances, so Crowley had never had an opportunity to observe him properly. He was short, perhaps reaching Crowley’s shoulder, but his hair made up for it; it piled up in tight, dark brown curls that fell into his eyes and added an extra foot to his height. His uniform, although he took great care of it, was visibly second hand; the elbows were worn to grey on the two-sizes too-big blazer, and his trousers stopped long before his socks began.

They had nothing in common - in fact, they were likely polar opposites of eachother - and yet, something about Aaron felt familiar to Crowley. It was like they were two adjacent pieces of a puzzle; they simply fit together. That was not to say Crowley didn’t find him annoying - oh, God knows he was annoying - but Aaron was surrounded by the same strange feeling that came to Crowley when he was surrounded by books. He couldn’t name it - he searched his memory for something, anything that could put a name to it. He walked backwards through his mind all the way until the furthest reaches; the foggy beginnings where the world was ending. There - there was something.  
       The bell rang.

 

* * *

  


Directly following lunch (which Crowley spent lamenting the fact that he couldn’t go and get some real food) was the first Religious Studies lesson of the week. The RS O-Level covered only one religion at St. Beryl’s, and remained its only remaining claim to its moniker. The students of St. Beryl’s would learn about vastly simplified and abridged moral arguments and beliefs of Christianity, which - while unsuccessful in providing any kind of valuable lesson - pushed almost all students even further away from the religion.  
It was Aaron’s favourite class - only because it was easy; for once he excelled beyond all his peers, even in the exams.   
          Aaron tested abominably; he permanently wobbled on a precipice of overwhelming anxiety and perpetual confusion, which in the stress of exam conditions came crashing over him. RS, however, was an exception; it consisted primarily of writing essays about things he was always thinking about, concepts he’d be raised on, so for once he knew that he would be the best - which had a brilliant calming effect.

Crowley did not see it that way. Religion made him uncomfortable, inexplicably, like the unpleasant cringing feeling from seeing a candid photo of yourself, or wet socks. There was all this ineffability; illogical thinking that everyone refused to explain because of reasons they struggled to understand themselves. When it came to things like the problem of evil, the beginning of the universe, or why on earth God would create mosquitoes, Crowley could understand - He’d concluded that God was a chaotic and particular old bugger who revelled in confusion. It was the other stuff that got Crowley; the rules.  
  
“Crowley- Look- Can you _please_ concentrate!” Aaron slapped the table, and Crowley reluctantly turned to face him. He groaned.  
  
“C’mon, Ziraphale, surely we don’t need to revise RS - it’s just, like, common sense and bible quotes.”  
  
“You thought ‘thou shalt not call thy neighbour an idiot’ was a commandment.” Aaron tapped his pen against the table, impatient; this was the only lesson where he felt assured enough to spend his time reading instead, and he was giving that away for a petulant imp that didn’t even want to try.  
  
Crowley smirked, “It’s in the book of Jedediah.”  
  
Aaron ran his hands through his hair, talking through gritted teeth, “That doesn’t exist!”  
  
Crowley sat forward, feigning offence, “Tell that to Jedediah!”  
  
Aaron groaned, putting his head down on the desk, “I don’t know who that is!”  
  
Crowley shrugged, tipping his chair back, “Me neither.”  
  
Aaron kept his head down on the table, focusing on his breathing. 21 days. Twenty-one. It was unclear to him who would give up first - Crowley, or himself. He begged the Lord for strength, then sat up.  
  
“Look, alright, if you really think you’re so smart,” he shoved a past paper onto Crowley’s desk, “There!”  
  
Crowley picked it up, raising his eyebrows, “How many of these things do you have? You could probably buy a new uniform with all the money you spend on printing this stuff.”  
Aaron shook his head, holding out a pen to Crowley, “You’re just stalling. Write.”  
  
Crowley tried to stare him down, then snatched the pen and started writing. Aaron watched him over his shoulder, pretending to be reading a textbook when Crowley looked up. Crowley took little time to think about each answer, lazily jotting down whatever he could think of. What was the role of men and women in the Church? Easy. Explain the symbolism in a Christian wedding? A doddle. Aaron snorted.  
  
Crowley looked up, “What? What’s so funny?” Aaron shook his head, holding a hand over his mouth. Crowley leant forward, “Huh?”  
  
Aaron gave up, lowering his hand and letting loose a tidal wave of chuckling, “Consummate.”  
  
Crowley frowned, “What?”  
  
“Consummate!” Aaron rocked back and forth, unable to quell his laughter, “You meant consummate!”  
  
“Well, what did I actually write?”  
  
Aaron breathed heavily, trying to stop himself from laughing, trying very very hard, “Consecrate.” It was no use; he clutched his belly, laughing uncontrollably.  
“But- What’s the difference?” Crowley questioned, indignant. Aaron looked up, snorted, and doubled over in fresh peals of chortling.  
  
Crowley shook his head, grimacing, “You have one weird sense of humour.” He waited to see if the laughter would peter out, and when it didn’t, he sighed and took headphones and his CD player from his coat pocket.  
  
Aaron looked up, trying to apologise through ever-persistent chortling, but stopped when he saw the device. He looked around hurriedly, leant in, and hissed, “What are you doing? That’s against the rules!”  
  
Crowley raised his eyebrows, “I have been here two days, and already it’s pretty obvious nobody - except maybe you - actually gives a shit.”  
  
Aaron scowled, “I could tell on you!” He sat up, wringing his hands, “It’d be the right thing to do.”  
  
Crowley smirked, “Oh _no_ ,” he put on a voice, “ _Please_ don’t do that, Aaron, I’m so sorry, I’ll put it away. I promise! Just don’t _tell on_ me!”  
  
Aaron balled his fists, and opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was a gigantic hiccup. Crowley snickered. He hiccupped again. “Classic,” sneered Crowley, “You laughed so hard you got hiccups. That’s, like, instant retribution or whatever. You’ve only got yourself to blame.”  
  
Aaron hiccupped angrily at him, and he shook his head, a smug smile plastered from ear to ear, “Really, this is brilliant.” He put on his headphones, leant his chair back, and closed his eyes.  
  
Crowley’s instant retribution would later come in the form of Aaron forcing him to make up for the wasted time at the library - although ‘forcing’ is likely an inappropriate word for the situation, Crowley was beginning to realise, because he was actually free to go at any point. He didn’t understand why he kept doing this to himself, but he supposed daytime TV really was very boring.


	5. World-Class Sleeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron looked around, assessing exactly how loud he could be. He shook Crowley, and in a voice that was quite loud, said, “Crowley, wake up, you idiot.”  
> In a feat of sleeping expertise worthy of a world title, Crowley did not wake up, but in fact buried his face deeper into his arms. Aaron sat back, frowning, and pushed his hair from his eyes. He was a far less experienced sleeper, something of a beginner in the field, and getting gradually and increasingly frustrated. He was only human, after all.
> 
> \--
> 
> School is already taking its toll on Crowley.

Wednesday was - as wednesdays often are - very dull, with little to note. Crowley was starting to feel the wear of early rising, mental work, and a constant atmosphere reminiscent of a particularly vibrant carnival with a band composed entirely of foghorns. Because of this, he had little energy for bickering, and simply got on, doing as little work as he could get away with. Aaron didn’t notice, as he was too busy being elated by the fact that Crowley wasn’t trying to start a fight.  
  
After three hours of reading at the library after school, the sun had very much gone down and Aaron was impressed; in the last two days, Crowley had given up and gone home within the first hour - had he truly turned over a new leaf? Aaron looked up. No, he hadn’t.

Crowley’s head was buried in his arms folded on the desk, his shoulders slowly rising and falling as he slept. Aaron felt the familiar slimy, tepid, unpleasant sinking feeling of disappointment, and said, quietly, “Crowley.”

Crowley was an exceptionally good sleeper; it was the only activity that truly brought him joy. He was so good, in fact, at sleeping that if Bruce Springsteen had ever recorded ‘Born to Sleep,’ Crowley would surely feature on the cover. A sleeper as experienced and talented as Crowley would never wake so easily.

“Crowley,” Aaron raised his voice, leaning forward to show that he was very annoyed with him, which might have been somewhat effective, had Crowley had his eyes open. Aaron nudged him, and he readjusted himself, made a small noise, but continued to sleep like a pro.

Aaron looked around, assessing exactly how loud he could be. He shook Crowley, and in a voice that was quite loud, said, “Crowley, wake up, you idiot.”  
In a feat of sleeping expertise worthy of a world title, Crowley did not wake up, but in fact buried his face deeper into his arms. Aaron sat back, frowning, and pushed his hair from his eyes. He was a far less experienced sleeper, something of a beginner in the field, and getting gradually and increasingly frustrated. He was only human, after all.

“ANTHONY!” he shouted, shoving Crowley so hard he fell out of his seat, hard enough to wake even the greatest of world-class sleepers.  
  
Crowley sat up, rubbing his head where it had it the floor in the fall. He scowled up at Aaron, “What the fuck did you do that for, you stupid bugger?”  
  
Aaron, wide eyed and panicky, fumbled, his mouth opening and closing like a fish that had just done something it regretted deeply, and was struggling to respond.  
  
Crowley got to his feet, still cursing and complaining liberally, and at no low volume, “Like, what the fuck? I would’a woken up eventually. You didn’t have to bloody _throw me across the room!”_ _  
_

Aaron raised a finger, “Now, that is definitely an exaggeration, I-”

“That is enough!” A pair of old, wrinkly hands slammed themselves onto the desk. They belonged to the librarian, who - committed to traditional librarianism - was very old, very grey, and absolutely terrifying. She glared at the pair over her traditional wire-rimmed spectacles, which she only ever glowered over, rather than through, “You have made quite enough of a spectacle of yourself for one day. Out!”

Crowley shrugged, picking up his bag and shoving his book inside. Aaron was nowhere near as nonchalant. He froze in his seat, mouth hanging open, and shaking slightly.

Crowley sighed, packing Aaron’s bag for him and shoving it into his quivering hands. Aaron stood, struggling to stutter out an apology.

“OUT!” the librarian hollered, pointing at the door with one of her long, bony, greyish fingers, for good measure.

Aaron ran straight out the door, wailing, “Sorryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!” while Crowley sauntered after him, thinking to himself just how much he loved this instant retribution mellarky.

Aaron stood outside, trying to collect himself. He had just been told off - by a librarian, no less! Oh, how he had fallen from grace, he was sure this was just the beginning, from here he could only plummet to new lows, disgracing himself at every turn - what next? Would he start being disrespectful? Skip church? _Skip school?_ The very thought was unbearable. 

And it was all Crowley’s fault.

Crowley clapped slowly as he snaked up to Aaron, “Hoo! That was brilliant, truly. Just for that, I forgive you for throwing me across the room.” He held out his hand to Aaron, who scowled at him.

“Forgive me? _Forgive me?”_ He turned on Crowley, balling his small fists at his side. 

Crowley raised his eyebrows, “Yeah, forgiveness is, like, good, right? Turn the other cheek and that?”

“This is all _your_ fault! You should be asking my forgiveness, not _forgiving_ me!” 

Crowley pulled a face, folding his arms, “Uh, you threw me across a room and, somehow, this is my fault?”

“I shoved you!” Aaron yelled, “I just shoved you, stop exaggerating! And I never would have had to, had you stayed awake like a normal person!”

“I was tired!” Crowley yelled back.

“Well maybe if you went to sleep at a reasonable hour!”

“I do! I just need more sleep than you!”

“Maybe that’s because you’re severely depressed!”

They were now almost nose-to-nose, shouting eachother down in front of the library door. Crowley grimaced, thrown off by the frankly weird comment.

The door to the library was one of those fancy ones that was motion operated, and so for the entire time that Aaron and Crowley had been fighting, it had been wide open. The librarian, truly riled up, like a very old and embittered bull, stormed at the pair, wielding a broom like a sledgehammer - and it was just as terrifying.

Aaron and Crowley ran, screaming, into the small garden outside the library, and then didn’t stop until they had jumped the small wall and crouched safely behind it. They waited, breath heavy with excitement, for the librarian’s screams to peter out. “I should call the police!” She screeched into the night, shaking her broom in the vague direction they had run, “You filthy little animals!”

When she finally got tired and returned to her desk, Aaron and Crowley turned to eachother, and fell apart laughing. Aaron felt guilty, still, but the very absurdity of the situation could not be ignored. Crowley laughed until his cheeks hurt - which didn’t take long, as they were not in good practice - and then said, “Severely depressed?”

Aaron coughed away the last of his chuckles, and shrugged, “It’s a theory.”

Crowley shook his head, “It’s weird.” He looked around; they were sat in the narrow walkway between the library and the office blocks next door, illuminated only by the measly yellow light of the streetlamp at the other end. He turned back to Aaron, who was smiling at him, the light diffracting off his hair to form something like a halo. There was a pause, in which all the secrets of the universe hung like stars in the small space between them. Crowley smirked, “You can let go of my hand now.”

Aaron’s face fell, “What?”

Crowley held up his hand, that Aaron was gripping tightly. He flexed his fingers, “Let go of my hand, please?”

Aaron frowned, quickly pulling away his hand and holding it to his face, which was heating up, “Sorry, it was an accident.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, leaning his head against the brick, “Clearly. I’m flattered, Aaron, but I should focus on school right now.”

Aaron elbowed him, “You cut that out!”

Crowley laughed, elbowing him back, “Laughing gas!”

“Shut up!” Aaron shoved him, “I just got scared!”

“Okay, okay,” Crowley sat up on the wall. Aaron looked up at him. “I’m done,” he said.

Aaron nodded, satisfied, and sat on the wall beside him, leaving a more comfortable space this time. 

He took a piece of paper from his blazer pocket, and handed it to Crowley, “This is for you.”

Crowley studied Aaron, and took the piece of paper, unfolded and read it. He shook his head, “You make it so hard not to rip on you, you know that?”  
  
Aaron sat up, defensive, “Hey! I’m giving you my phone number in case you get ill or something! You know, if you have a real reason to not come to school, I don’t want to win unfairly.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, “I mean, it’s a good excuse, I guess.”

“Also,” Aaron continued, “If you are in fact severely depressed, or either way your terrible self esteem gets the better of you, I think you should have someone to talk to.”

Crowley smiled, “Not as great an excuse. You still haven’t dropped this self esteem shit?”

“It’s the truth!” Aaron jutted out his chin, “I know it! I’ve been-”

“Reading, yeah.” He put the piece of paper in his pocket, “I’m sure the Samaritans will do just fine, thanks.” Aaron watched him expectantly. “What?”

“Well, aren’t you going to give me yours?” He asked.

Crowley tilted his head, “My number?”  
  
“Yes! Obviously!” Aaron tutted, as thought it was obvious, “If you do decide to quit, I think I should be able to check and make sure before I take action.”

“Action?”

“Destroying the book.”

Crowley leant back, “Oh, right,” He rolled his eyes, “We’re still on that.”

“Just give me your number, Crowley,” Aaron said, his patience wearing thin, “Please?”

Crowley looked up him and down, and then shrugged, “I guess it’s fair, and it’s not like I’m worried I’ll chicken out - this is a sinch. You can’t beat me that easy. Gimme a pen and paper, then.”

Aaron opened his bag and took out his planner and a pen, handing them to Crowley. He also took a tiny LED torch from his keychain, holding it over the paper, which provoked and exasperated sigh from Crowley. He wrote his number across the notes page and, for good measure, signed it ‘call me xoxo.’

Aaron snatched the planner from him, “What did you write that for?” he snapped.

Crowley stood, and smiled down at Aaron, shrugging, “It was funny. Couldn’t resist.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked off, listening to Aaron’s indignant grumbling.

He took a bus home, watching the North London streets melt past as his fingers fiddled with the slip of paper in his pocket, and his mind lingered, irremovable, on the tight grip of a small, soft, warm hand in his.


	6. Bright-Eyed Little Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He nearly fell over when he hit into Aaron, who had stopped, and was staring down the corridor with an embarrassing grin on his face. Crowley followed his gaze to a teacher carrying an armful of exercise books out of a classroom. Admittedly, the sight of a teacher even touching their students’ books was unbelievably rare, so the reaction seemed understandable to Crowley.  
> “Ms. Daniels!” Aaron exclaimed, rushing up to the teacher with uncensored excitement. Crowley snaked after him with slightly censored apprehension.
> 
> \--
> 
> Crowley and Aziraphale have a run-in with an old friend, of sorts.

The morning arrived, and Crowley dragged himself out of bed in the half-light of dawn, downed half a jug of coffee, and saved the rest in a flask for the slog ahead. He managed to stay awake with aching eyes and focus like a dropped bar of soap, with the help of Aaron’s nagging and an abundance of caffein top-ups. He sat through lesson after lesson, listening to Aaron’s explanations about alkenes, indices, and alliteration, throwing himself into note-taking and calculations to hold onto his consciousness and ignore the hurricane he could feel brewing in the pit of his stomach every time he let his eyes linger on Aaron any longer than was absolutely necessary.  
  
Lunch came, and he upended his flask, trying to catch the last few pitiful drops of coffee. He stared into the empty container, yawned, and pulled his coat tighter about himself. It was well into November now, and harsh winter winds swept across the puddle-strewn courtyard of St. Beryl’s.  
  
Aaron watched him, and shook his head, “You’d probably be warmer if you got a good night’s sleep.”  
  
“I slept fine,” Crowley snapped, throwing the flask into his bag, “Just not enough.”  
  
“Eat alright?” Aaron asked.  
  
Crowley threw him a cold, sarcastic smile, “It’s just cold. It’s November. The weather works like that.”  
  
Aaron shrugged, “I suppose it is a little chilly.” He looked around the sparse courtyard, where students huddled in corners like penguins, then back to Crowley. He had a scarf wrapped up to his nose, and his hands were stuffed rigidly into his coat pockets. Aaron stood up, “You know I mentioned there’s a library?”  
  
Crowley stared blankly at him for a moment, then narrowed his eyes, “Has it been open all this time?”  
  
A guilty look flitted across Aaron’s face, and he started walking across the courtyard to the West Block, “Probably.”  
  
Crowley watched him, groaned, and climbed down from his perch atop a picnic bench, following Aaron’s lead.  
  
“Bear in mind that there is a price to the warmth and shelter of the library,” Aaron explained as he pushed open the door to the West Block. Crowley sighed. “You can’t just sit around and chat,” he continued, “You do have to be doing something productive, like homework.”  
  
Crowley pulled a face, “Can’t I just ‘read’?” By read, he meant have a book in front of him while he slept - Aaron missed the intonation.  
  
He tilted his head, thinking, “Hmm. I suppose so, yes. It’s a bit of a waste of a lunchtime, although given that usually you just sit around and complain, it would still be an improvement.”  
  
Crowley gave Aaron the facial equivalent of the middle finger, behind his back. They trekked the narrow, poorly-lit, dank corridor that ran through the West Block, which bent around the library, and ended at the library’s entrance. Crowley hoped the library was at least a little better than the rest of the block.  
  
He nearly fell over when he hit into Aaron, who had stopped, and was staring down the corridor with an embarrassing grin on his face. Crowley followed his gaze to a teacher carrying an armful of exercise books out of a classroom. Admittedly, the sight of a teacher even touching their students’ books was unbelievably rare, so the reaction seemed understandable to Crowley.  
  
“Ms. Daniels!” Aaron exclaimed, rushing up to the teacher with uncensored excitement. Crowley snaked after him with slightly censored apprehension.  
  
The teacher turned and her round face lit up, “Aaron! Oh my gosh, it’s so good to see you! It feels like it’s been forever!” She was short, fat, and very Welsh, and gave off a glow that was very golden and distinctly motherly.  
  
Aaron nodded, bouncing on the balls of his feet, “It really has been a very long time, you left around May - how’s the baby?”  
  
Ms. Daniels sighed dramatically, “She’s a bundle of joy, really, but babies are such hard work!” She shook her head, “If only I could just skip the messy stages, adopt you instead,” she laughed and pinched Aaron’s cheek, “You’re such an angel.”  
  
Aaron nodded, parroting, “Yes, if only!”  
  
Crowley raised his eyebrows, feeling thoroughly out of place in the conversation. In a pause that dragged on just too long, he saw a desperately sad expression happen across Aaron’s face, and snorted. Ms. Daniels turned to him, pinning him down in her overwhelming warmth. “Who’s this, Aaron? A friend of yours?”  
  
“Oh,” Aaron’s smile dimmed, “This is Anthony Crowley. I’m afraid he’s been in the habit of truancy for quite some time,” he puffed out his chest, “I’m bringing him towards the path of honesty.”  
  
Ms. Daniels threw him a proud smile, “Oh, of course.” She looked back to Crowley, “Come on, mister Crowley, step into the light, let me get a look at you.”  
  
Crowley shuffled reluctantly into the weak light overhead, keeping his hands in his pockets and avoiding Ms. Daniels’ eyes as she studied him. She took in his floppy black hair, sharp features, and dark clothing, and raised an eyebrow at the single stud that glinted in his right ear. She narrowed her eyes, and then widened them to twice their normal size, “I know you!” She gasped, pointing at him.  
  
“Uh - you do?” He frowned.  
  
“Bright eyed little Tony, yes!” She grinned, “I taught you in first year! Oh, you were such an _angel_ , such big ideas, I could never make you shut up! Came up to my waist, you did!” Crowley shrank into his coat, suddenly feeling anything but cold. “How did _you_ fall so far from grace?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, staring at the floor, “More like sauntered vaguely downward, I s’pose,” he mumbled.  
  
Ms. Daniels shook her head, “Got in with a bad crowd, I expect. That is so sad.” She put her hand on Aaron’s shoulder, who was staring at Crowley in amused disbelief, “I’m glad you’re helping him, Aaron, I really am.”  
  
Crowley shot Aaron a look that obviously meant ‘shut up,’ but Aaron was always terrible with cues, so just grinned at him. “Well, boys,” Ms. Daniels patted Crowley’s arm and walked around them, “I must be off, but it was lovely to see you both!”  
  
They watched her waddle off in stunned silence. She turned back at the corner and called, “Don’t you go corrupting him, Anthony, you hear me? He’s a cherub, that one is. A real-life Godsend.” She pointed at Crowley, then disappeared around the corner.  
  
Aaron sighed, smiling dizzily. With real parents out of the picture, Aaron had come to look to other people for his mother and father figures - Ms. Daniels was a favourite. She was so kind - too kind, he thought; he was really only a principality at best.  
  
He grinned up at Crowley, who scowled at him. “Bright eyed little Tony.”  
  
Crowley turned on his heel, hurrying towards the library, “Fuck off, Godsend.”  
  
Aaron chuckled, following after him, “‘You were such an _angel!_ _’”_ he echoed.  
  
Crowley stopped at the door to the library and turned on Aaron, “If you bring that up again - ever - then I swear I will drown you in a school toilet.”  
  
Aaron widened his eyes. He didn’t really believe him; he knew Crowley would never sink quite that low, but he could wager that he was willing to give him quite an unpleasant swirlie.  
  
Crowley threw himself down on the beaten up sofa that occupied a corner of the library, put a book over his head, and fell asleep. Aaron didn’t bother him, just sat and read beside him. Every so often, his eyes wandered from the page to Crowley’s hand, which lay open in his lap. He snapped himself away, shrinking into the far corner of the sofa as deep frown lines snaked across his forehead.


	7. Beelzebub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley shrugged, crossing his legs, “Got no kit. Guess I’ll just have to sit out,” he smirked, “Sorry.”  
> Aaron shook his head pityingly, “If you say so…” He sighed, and carried on getting changed into his third-hand shorts and polo-shirt. Some mistakes Crowley would just have to make for himself.
> 
> \--
> 
> PE lessons, as is traditional, go terribly and may result in some level of trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big warning in this chapter for violence, teacher-student abuse, and implied homophobia

“Well, this is new.” Crowley wrinkled his nose, peering around the dingy changing room that was stuck onto the side of the West Block with a crumbling sports hall. The benches were sparse wooden slats, an ominous smell seeped from the showers, and the floor was suspiciously sticky underfoot.  
  
Aaron sighed, trudging to the furthest corner from the showers and hanging his bag on a hook. Crowley followed suit, and tentatively sat down on the bench. While Aaron tugged off his jumper, Crowley gazed nonchalantly about the room, observing the other students that filed in and began filling up the room, starting furthest from the showers.  
  
Aaron stopped halfway through unbuttoning his shirt and stared at Crowley, “Aren’t you going to get changed?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, crossing his legs, “Got no kit. Guess I’ll just have to sit out,” he smirked, “Sorry.”  
  
Aaron shook his head pityingly, “If you say so…” He sighed, and carried on getting changed into his third-hand shorts and polo-shirt. Some mistakes Crowley would just have to make for himself.  
  
“Alright, you horrible lot,” mr. B boomed as he thundered into the changing room, “Get to the gym in three.” He surveyed his small, slimy kingdom, and his beady eyes stopped at Crowley, “Oi,” he pointed a large, hairy arm at him, “Why aren’t you changed?”  
  
Crowley uncrossed his legs, straightening his back, “I’ve got no kit,” he said.  
  
“Wossat?” Mr. B stepped towards him.  
  
“I- I’ve got no kit, sir,” Crowley raised his voice, stiff with fear.  
  
“Oh!” Mr. B laughed, and it sounded like a swarm of particularly sadistic bees, “He’s got no kit!” He looked around the room, and received a wave of laughter ranging from forced and terrified to sincere schadenfreude. “What’s your name, boy?”  
  
Crowley’s wide eyes swivelled about the room, “Uh, Crowley, sir.”  
  
Mr. B scowled, “The little imp from 5B6. Well, it looks like mister Crowley thinks he’s exempt from the rules. Or maybe he’s just stupid. Are you stupid, mister Crowley?” Crowley glanced up at Aaron, who wouldn’t look at him. “No, I’m talking to you! Are you stupid, boy?”  
  
Crowley stared at Mr. B, “No?”  
  
“Is that a question?”  
  
Crowley shook his head, “No sir.”  
  
“So you think you’re better than us, do you?”  
  
“No sir.”  
  
Mr. B loomed over Crowley, close enough to smell too many of his pungent smells, “You watch yourself, Crowley. You hear me?” He growled, and Crowley nodded vigorously, holding his breath.  
  
Mr. B stood and hit Aaron over the head, “Deal with your little friend, Ziraphale, and hurry up with it!” He stormed from the room, hollering, “Gym in one!”  
  
Crowley sat, crushed, stunned, and panting, while students whispered and jeered. He glanced around and composed himself, and flipped off the door Mr. B had slammed behind him.  
  
Aaron sat down beside him, adjusting his glasses, “Well, that was… something.”  
  
Crowley turned to him, wide eyed, “Holy shit! Holy shit, mate! Holy fucking shit.”  
  
Aaron frowned, shuffling in his seat, “Enough of the blasphemies, thank you.” He looked at Crowley, and explained, “If you don’t have kit, you have to do PE in your underwear.”  
  
Crowley sighed, running his hands through his hair and snaking into a despaired slouch, “Fucking hell.”  
  
Aaron tutted, then pulled off his polo-shirt. “Here,” he handed it to Crowley, “I’ve got a vest on, at least.”  
  
Crowley grimaced, accepting the shirt with a quiet thanks.

 

* * *

  
  
PE was just as much a shambles as the rest of the school, but with the added shambling of being a PE lesson - all PE lessons are inherently a shambles; a byproduct of their irrelevance. Mr. B picked two team captains, threw them a saggy football, and then sat down to read a cheap top-shelf magazine.  
  
Crowley stood at the back of the huddle of students waiting to be picked for a team, his arms folded tightly around his front. He looked a sorry sight; too tall and gangly in questionably clean boxers and Aaron’s shirt, which barely covered his midriff. The only part of him that wasn’t goosebumped from cold was his face, which was burning and perpetually squashed into a scowl. He was thankful to see that a few of the boys who joined the two team lines were also kitless - but none had been humiliated like he had.  
  
Aaron stood beside him, crouching slightly to hide from view, hoping that maybe the numbers wouldn’t add up and he’d be put on the bench as a substitute. He hated sports, and when he wasn’t floundering about hopelessly, or flat on his face, he hid in a corner. Nobody minded much, so long as he kept out of the way. Normally, the numbers didn’t add up anyway, and he could just sit and watch.  
  
The huddle dwindled until it was just Crowley and Aaron. Aaron sighed. The team captains shared murmured conversations with their teammates (‘Just pick the other one, Ziraphale’s useless’ ‘yeah, but Beelzebub’s probably thrown that other kid into shock! He practically shat his pants,’) and a few giggles rose into the stale air of the hall. The captains resorted to Rock, Paper, Scissors, and both reluctantly accepted their last teammate. The two teams huddled in separate sides of the hall to discuss tactics.  
  
Crowley stood outside the huddle, the entire dialogue passing him by completely. Then, they dispersed, and the captain pointed at him and said, “Left midfield,” and then ran off to the middle of the hall to meet the other captain.  
  
Crowley stayed where he stood, and as the game started, wondered aloud, “What the fuck is a left midfield?” He looked around, and then sauntered vaguely left and decidedly out of the way. He leant against the wall and surveyed the hall, trying to make sense of the running and kicking and shouting. He saw Aaron doing the same on the opposite wall, who saw him and waved.  
  
Aaron waited until the game was mostly on one side of the hall, then jogged across to Crowley, apologising only three times as he went, and receiving only six dirty looks, and a single measly ‘get fucked.’ He smiled up at Crowley, leaning against the wall beside him, “Not a sports fan?”  
  
Crowley pretended to focus on the game.  
  
Aaron’s face fell, he tilted his head, “Are you okay? I know mr. B is scary… and ruthless… and cruel… but it really wasn’t that bad! We’ll all be laughing about it a month from now.”  
  
Crowley threw him a withering look, “‘Thou shalt not lie.’”  
  
Aaron sighed, shaking his head, “At least you’ve learnt that. I’m sorry, Crowley, if it’s any consolation it happens to a lot of people. New kids, first years, kids who’ve been _away_ for a long time.”  
  
Crowley sank to the ground, hugging his knees, “Whatever. I just want this to be over.”  
  
Aaron sat down legs crossed beside him. He stared at him, the deep frown that hung like a weight over Crowley’s face tugging at something inside him. The moment he reached out to touch Crowley’s shoulder, a football came spinning into his face.  
  
He gazed, dazed, around the blurry hall that swirled with stars, and was vaguely aware of a voice saying his name over the ringing in his ears. The voice was panicked, he noted.  
  
“Aaron, holy shit, are you alright?” Crowley steadied him, examining his head for injuries.  
  
“Ooh, that really stings, that does,” Aaron muttered deliriously, and Crowley laughed.   
  
He turned on the handful of students who had stopped playing to watch, “Watch where you’re fucking kicking that thing, alright?”  
  
“Well maybe if he weren’t such a fat shite and actually played!” a short, pinch-faced boy retorted.  
  
Crowley stood, “If you were any good at your pathetic game of kickball, it never would’a hit the side anyway!”  
  
Pinch-face shook his head, “Whatever, you’re just siding with him because you’re both…” he spat a word that made Crowley feel like he’d been caught red-handed at some atrocious, unforgivable sin. He punched him.  
  
The boy stood stunned for a second, then threw himself at Crowley with small fists clenched and bony elbows flying. He missed a punch at Crowley’s jaw but got him in the chest with an elbow, Crowley punched him in the gut. They scrambled, pushing and punching and yelling as a crowd circled around them, until Crowley got the boy to the floor.   
  
He pinned him down and started punching him in the face over and over and over, hissing, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, _shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut-”_  
  
A whistle rang through the hall like a police siren.  
  
Mr. B bulldozed through the crowd and threw Crowley across the hall by the neck. He skidded across the floor until he hit the wall with enough force to send pain throbbing through his head.  
  
“WHAT D’YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, YOU IDIOT BOY?” Mr. B screamed, “YOU SWAN IN HERE LIKE YOU OWN THE PLACE, START BEATING UP MY STAR PLAYER. ALASTOR’S GOT A MATCH TOMORROW!” Crowley sat up against the wall, rubbing his head and wincing as Mr. B’s thunderous voice buzzed through his ears. “I’LL SEE YOU CANED FOR THIS, CROWLEY, JUST YOU WAIT.”  
  
Mr. B ushered Alastor away to the medical room to fix his bleeding lip and black eye, and the silence of the hall was quickly filled with muttering. Many students meandered back to the changing rooms, happy to call it a day, but one - Crowley recognised him as one of the captains - sidled up to Crowley, who was still sat against the wall, holding his head. The captain studied him, spat, and then stormed away.  
  
“Hey.” Aaron wandered across to him, still dizzy, holding his glasses onto his face. Crowley looked up; he had almost forgotten about him. “I’m fine,” Aaron smiled, “How about you?” Crowley shrugged. Aaron held out a hand to help him up, “Quick, or my glasses’ll fall off.”  
  
Crowley took his hand, pulling himself up. He ached in numerous places. Aaron gave up with his glasses, folding them up in his hand. He squinted up at Crowley, “That was really stupid.” He didn’t say it meanly, nor to fault him, but softly. Crowley shrugged.  
  
Aaron touched Crowley’s arm, and he flinched. Aaron blinked, “Oh, I’m sorry, I just… Well, I need help finding my way back to the changing rooms.” He peered up at him, “Please?”  
  
Crowley shrugged.  
  
He let Aaron hold his arm, and Aaron let him guide him back, and they both let that be enough.


	8. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsieur J. Adam - of no relation to any other Adam of note - was a small weasel of a man, who made up for his lack of height in terror. He was like someone plucked from a children’s story book, complete with a very small moustache and questionable accent.  
> “Now,” he surveyed the silent rows of students, all ready to obey his every command - or face the consequences, “I ‘ave marked your papers, and overall I am…” he raised a thin eyebrow, “Not too disappointed.” He scanned the room again, pausing at a tall, dark boy slouched at the back, “Wiz most of you.”
> 
> \--
> 
> Essentially, Crowley can't catch a break. Everyone has a breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning again for implied homophobia
> 
> also, no matter how much it seems like it, this is nowhere near the end of the fic

Crowley sat with his head on his arms, trying to blot out the pain in his head, and shoulder, and face, and chest, and side. Aaron sat across from him on the picnic bench, trying to put his glasses back together with sticky-tape - one of the arms had snapped off at the hinge, and the lenses were all scuffed.  
  
“Ooh, I’ll need a new pair!” Aaron whined, winding another layer of tape around the hinge, “That’s such a shame, I really likes these!”  
  
He looked up, waiting for Crowley to make a snide remark, or snicker, or anything. He didn’t, which worried Aaron immensely. “Are you awake?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, a habit which grew increasingly tedious and annoying each time he did it, “I wanna go home.”  
  
Aaron sighed, “It’s friday, Crowley! Just hold on a few more hours.”  
  
“I’m sick, I ought to go home.”  
  
“Well…” Aaron fiddled with his glasses, “You could call in at the nurse’s office and ask to go home, but you do need an _adult_ to pick you up.”  
  
Crowley lifted his head and hit the table, “For fuck’s sake!”  
  
Aaron watched him, “Are your parents very busy?”  
  
Crowley studied him, then turned away, “Something like that.” He picked up Aaron’s glasses, fiddling with the hinge. He peered through the lenses, “Whoa.” He laughed, “You’re blind as, mate!”  
  
Aaron huffed, “I think the fight’s left you concussed.” He reached out, “Give them back.”  
  
“Ah ah ah!” Crowley leant back, balancing the glasses on his head. “It’s like wearing binoculars. Man. My eyes hurt.”  
  
“Yeah, they would! Now give them back, or… or you’ll ruin your eyes! And you’ll have to wear them too!”  
  
Crowley looked at him, pulling off the glasses, “It works like that?”  
  
Aaron nodded, “It works like that.”  
  
Crowley put down the glasses, and rubbed his eyes. Aaron picked them up and checked the hinge. He wiggled it about, and it stayed together. He put them on, and they fit like normal. “Huh,” he muttered.  
  
“Okay, joking aside,” Crowley leant forward on the table, “What happens if I just, y’know, walk out? Right now? The gate’s right there; it’s open.”  
  
“Well, first of all…” Aaron pushed up his glasses, thinking, “You’d likely get a big long detention, and then maybe a caning. Again. You don’t want to be caned twice in a month, I’ve heard it’s truly horrible.” Crowley shrugged. “Also, you’d lose the bet.”  
  
Crowley pulled a face, “How’s that work? I’d only be missing a few hours, what does it matter?”  
  
“Well, every hour counts at this point. _And_ we have French today, and we get the results to our practice tests, so that’s very important.”  
  
Crowley groaned, burying his face in his hands. St. Beryl’s head of French was the antithesis of everything the school seemed to stand for; he was always on time, always meticulously prepared, and ruthlessly dedicated. He expected the same from his students. He had hated Crowley from the moment they met, disgusted by the aloof carelessness that radiated from him like a bad smell.  
  
Aaron reached across and pat him on the head, “There there, it’ll all be over soon,” he said.  
  
“It’ll be over a lot sooner if you don’t take your hand away right now,” Crowley hissed.  
  
Aaron shrank away, “Right, er, French. Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

 

* * *

 

Monsieur J. Adam - of no relation to any other Adam of note - was a small weasel of a man, who made up for his lack of height in terror. He was like someone plucked from a children’s story book, complete with a very small moustache and questionable accent.  
  
“Now,” he surveyed the silent rows of students, all ready to obey his every command - or face the consequences, “I ‘ave marked your papers, and overall I am…” he raised a thin eyebrow, “Not _too_ disappointed.” He scanned the room again, pausing at a tall, dark boy slouched at the back, “Wiz _most_ of you.”  
  
Monsieur Adam slunk through the rows of desks, stopping over each student and announcing their mark as he returned their paper, coupled with the French equivalent of comments such as ‘adequate’ or ‘I’ve seen worse’ or ‘I’m surprised you can even write your name.’  
  
He moved excruciatingly slowly, but eventually arrived at Aaron’s desk. He dropped the paper before him with a big ‘C’ inked across the front in red, and said, in French, “I will never understand your remarkable contrast between book work and tests. I’d accuse you of cheating if I didn’t know any better.” Of which Aaron only understood ‘remarkable’ and ‘book,’ and beamed.  
  
Then came Crowley. Monsieur Adam stopped before him and gave a dramatic sigh. He then said, in English, “Monsieur Crowley, for every answer you did not know - which was most of zem - you wrote, ‘baguette.’” Monsieur Adam paused to let the giggles wave through the class, “Clearly,” he looked around, “Monsieur Crowley believes ‘imself a comedian.”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “I mean, if you can’t say something true, say something funny, right?”  
  
Monsieur Adam turned on him, screeching, _“I did not ask you to speak!”_ Crowley winced, and Monsieur Adam composed himself, “I sincerely ‘ope you succeed as a comedian, monsieur Crowley, as you will never succeed as a linguist or a scholar.” Crowley rolled his eyes, “You are wasting my time, you waste zis school’s time every day you are ‘ere, stroppy, careless, as if ze blessing of education is a burden to you. You are wasting your own time.”  
  
Crowley shoved the desk away, standing up, “Damn right!” He shouted into the teacher’s face. He kicked the chair away, and stormed from the room, chased by a chorus of ‘ooo’s.  
  
Aaron glanced about himself, then stood, “I-I’ll go talk him down, shall I?” He edged from his desk and up through the rows.  
  
Monsieur Adams pointed at him, “If you so much as glance out of zis classroom, monsieur Ziraphale, you will ‘ave ze cane!”  
  
Aaron wavered, staring into monsieur Adam’s enraged face. “Sorry,” he muttered, and then ran from the room and after his friend.

 

* * *

 

“Crowley!” Aaron called as he tried to keep up with his friend’s brisk pace across the courtyard, “Crowley, wait! Where are you going?”  
  
“Home!” Crowley called back.  
  
“But you can’t! That’s truancy! Truancy is not the answer!”  
  
“I don’t care.”  
  
“Fine. Go. But…” he was running out of breath as he ran, “But say goodbye to the book… the bet… to me.”  
  
Crowley slowed, only slightly. Aaron noticed. “You do this,” he called, “And I’m not your friend anymore.” He thought for a moment, and then added, “And the book’s getting fed to the ducks-”  
  
Crowley turned and shoved Aaron, hard, “Leave me alone!”  
  
Aaron staggered backwards, staring up at Crowley, his face a picture of betrayal.  
  
“Just leave me alone!” Crowley screamed, “Why can’t you just leave me alone? Can’t you even do that, you stupid little-”  
  
The word fell from his lips like a blow he could never, ever, take back, and he stood before Aaron, fists clenched at his sides; shaking. Aaron stared at him, trying to find something worth saying in every breath he raked into his lungs, but found nothing.  
  
“Just leave me alone,” Crowley muttered. He turned, and ran.  
  
Aaron watched him, then returned to class.

 

* * *

 

Neither were seen in the library that evening.


	9. Cherubs' House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a great deal of books, which are often bought for 10 or 11 year old boys for birthdays or Christmas, that are full of illustrated retellings of history, that leave out all the rather unpleasant bits such as rampant fascism and torture. For example, some of these books are about the middle ages, and instead of mentioning witch burning or ill-justified wars, they have coy illustrations of knights, and castles, and the kinds of monasteries run by monks in brown sacks where they taught all the children of the village, and ran a sort of orphanage.
> 
> \--
> 
> Here comes a weekend of regret and feeling like shit.

Crowley returned home, instantly throwing himself face down into his sofa and into an hour of self-pity. Then, he got up, microwaved some chips, wrestled off his chest binder, and then settled into another hour of self pity in front of the TV. He had to make the most of it while it lasted; soon the regret, guilt, and eventual self-loathing would set in, and then he was really in for a slog.  
  
He hoped that he’d fall asleep in front of the TV before he could really process what he’d done - but his mind was doing overtime, whirring away inside his head so that the best he could manage was a blurry stream of consciousness from topic to topic; cars; the Eastenders re-run he was watching; English exam techniques; anything that kept his mind from facing reality.  
  
But when he tried closing his eyes, everything replayed in his head - the sensation of Alastor’s face under his knuckles; how his words had hung in the air, heavy, sharp, ugly, a foul smell; Aaron - When he closed his eyes, Aaron was everywhere, taunting him just through existing.  
  
He stood there, in Crowley’s memory, his face a deck of fallen cards, like Crowley had just set forth the fatal gentle blow that left Aaron’s delicate structure decimated. He didn’t know if it was just his memory, but he seemed so small, smaller than he already was; something small and trembling he could so easily crush, turn to dust, with a single wrong move. It terrified him.  
  
He sat up and tried to adjust his binder in hopes of alleviating the tightness he felt in his chest, but remembered taking it off. He groaned and turned over, closing his eyes. He breathed.

In…   
  
Aaron’s hand held softly in the crook of his arm after PE, as he tried desperately to make light of the situation and frowned up at the blurred image of Crowley...  
out… 

He beamed, sometimes. It was no normal smile; it was like the sun was something someone built to replicate the warmth, and beauty, and love that radiated from Aaron’s face so free and unambiguous, it was a mystery the world didn’t fall at his feet…  
  
In…

A halo formed from scattered light on tousled curls, turning the blandest of sulfuric lights into a shower of blessings, framing a face that held all the secrets of the universe in glittering eyes and soft, soft…  
  
Out.  
  
The whining from the TV grew gradually louder and louder, stabbing through Crowley’s train of thought. He dragged himself from the sofa and jabbed the off button on the remote, then slithered to his bedroom, where the blinds were always drawn and the aura of neglect and fatigue hung heavy in the air.  
He collapsed on the bed, cursing himself.

 

* * *

 

Aaron walked all the way home in a heavy daze, like someone had thrown a tree onto the tracks of his train of thought. He watched his steps to keep his ground, carefully navigating each wonky paving slab and cracked stretch of concrete. He made sure not to step on any cracks, or lines, or puddles - he wasn’t superstition, not in  _ that _ sense; he just hated the sensation. It was indescribable; uneasy - comparable perhaps to stepping on wet paint.

He was grateful for his little compulsion at times like these; something so solid and concrete as cracks in the concrete could keep his mind spiralling off into undesirable places. He set aside little luxuries for himself; if it had been a normal day, he would grimace through the parts of pavement made from lots of little bricks arranged oddly this way and that; if he was exceptionally pleased with himself he would cross the road to more navigable terrain, and - if he was particularly upset - sometimes he would just walk in the road. Not with any self destructive intent, but just because it was quite exciting, in a way - and smooth.

He thought about this, as he dawdled along the middle of the quiet suburban road; he thought about these little, strange things that could bring him such satisfaction, so he didn’t have to think about other things. Perhaps, if he hadn’t been thinking so hard - and not-thinking even harder - he would have seen the car.

There was a horn, and bright lights, and lots of sudden movement. Aaron screamed, jumping between two parked cars and tumbling onto the pavement. He scrambled to his feet, dashing round the corner as the sounds of a very angry driver grew increasingly distant. He bolted his way up the last few roads to the monastery care-home, bursting through the door.  
  
“Now hold on just a minute!”   
  
Aaron stopped, halfway up the stairs, remembered finally to breathe, and turned. Brother Haniel - head patron of the care-home - tapped his foot, with patiently folded arms, “What are we forgetting?”  
  
“Good afternood… Brother Haniel…” Aaron panted. He took a moment to compose himself, then continued, “Er, noon. How was your day?”  
  
Brother Haniel shook his head, then pointed at Aaron’s shoes, “What do we do when we enter the house?”  
  
Aaron’s face lit up with realisation, “Oh, right!” He tip-toed to the doorway, untied his shoes and stuffed them into the rack full of near-identical, well-worn, sensible shoes.  
  
“Why in such a hurry?” Brother Haniel asked, “And home so early. Why, I think you’re the first one home… for once.”  
  
Aaron frowned into the shoe rack, “Yeah… the library, it’s closed,” he stood, marching up the stairs, “So I’m just going to study in my room, thank you. Please don’t disturb me. Anyone.”  
  
“Not even for-”  
  
“I’m not hungry.”

 

* * *

 

There are a great deal of books, which are often bought for 10 or 11 year old boys for birthdays or Christmas, that are full of illustrated retellings of history, that leave out all the rather unpleasant bits such as rampant fascism and torture. For example, some of these books are about the middle ages, and instead of mentioning witch burning or ill-justified wars, they have coy illustrations of knights, and castles, and the kinds of monasteries run by monks in brown sacks where they taught all the children of the village, and ran a sort of orphanage.  
  
These places don’t exist much these days, or at least, the monks don’t wear sacks, and while the care-homes are very close to the monasteries, they’re technically separate buildings, and not very different to other care-homes, but with more praying and less fighting, ideally.  
  
Aaron’s care-home was, in many ways, ideal; fighting was minimal, the children were usually civil, and the food was actually pretty good. To enter Cherubs’ House would feel like stepping into a story book; a rather dull, stuffy one, but a story book nonetheless.  
  
Aaron hated it.  
  
Although he had begged and bartered for and eventually won his own, small room in a high corner of the house, he still never felt alone; younger children had been known to sneak in, while he was away, and do small things like rearrange his books or hide his belongings, and elders would often pop in for a friendly, but dreadfully unwelcome heart-to-heart.  
  
Not only was it frightfully communal, it was packed with angelically talented people - and Aaron. He was not horribly untalented, he knew this (except at singing. He was exceptionally talented at sounding like a rabid crow.) The problem was, he was constantly overshadowed, and never allowed to forget it. He was the disappointment; the principality among powers; the sarcastic brat who read books in the back of church service, could recite entire scenes of Lord of the Rings word-for-word, and was rejected from every respectable school available.   
  
He just didn’t test well, he kept insisting this (although, there was also an incident with a magic act, a soaked headmaster, and a dead dove) but nobody listened.

He pushed his desk chair in front of the door, and fell facedown on the bed. He lay there, face pressed against the covers, and let his brain slow down. He would have to face his situation some time.  
  
He sat up and took off his school uniform, hanging it up carefully in the small wooden closet in a corner of his room, and then pulled on a large, soft, beige jumper from a drawer. He sat down at his bed, and scratched his nose. He did have to face his situation soon, yes, but there were over 48 hours between him and the inevitable. He supposed a little procrastination reading wouldn’t hurt anyone.

He scanned the bottom shelf of his bookshelves, which covered the only upright wall in his lopsided room - the bottom shelf was for the newest books, the ones that entailed his latest interest. “Ah.” He frowned; psychology. That had been all he had thought about for a while now - or, perhaps, the majority of what he thought about; the majority he was willing to admit.  
  
It was also brilliant at reminding him of his predicament. His heavily bitten fingers hovered over the most recent one, as he glanced up, to his fantasy fiction days, where Lord of the Rings snuggled up next to the Chronicles of Narnia, tightly packed amongst an abundance of miscellaneous fanciful titles. He shook his head, and tugged the psychology volume from the shelf.

He dropped it heavily on the bed and began leafing through the pages distractedly. Understanding an issue is the key to resolution - he wanted resolution, right? Crowley was his only friend, provided they were in fact friends; it was hard to tell when he’d never had one. But from what he’d seen and read, friends did things together, and laughed together, and did eachother favours - besides, he really did like Crowley. Friends, definitely.  
  
He leant against the headboard and shifted the book onto his lap, scanning the pages for relevant information and occasionally losing his place as his mind went walkabout. He contemplated how weird he felt; his insides painted purple and always falling, falling, falling - the event replaying in his mind as the ground crumbled under his feet. It was like nothing he’d never felt before; it was like the end of the world.  
  
Well, he supposed he could find some information on that too. That would be nice. Aaron read, enthralled, and the darkness fell around him. This was him, upset; he had always been like this. Once, Emmanuel, his old roommate, had cut his hair as a prank, and Aaron had sat in his room reading about every musical he could find for a week. They had to get a ladder to the window just to negotiate with him.

       He only stopped once, to yawn, and realised someone was knocking at his door. He listened, seeing if they would go away, and when they didn’t he sighed, got up, and opened the door enough to look through, “Oh, hi Gabriel.”

      Brother Gabriel was, by far, the nicest and best liked person in the entire monastery; he helped at the care-home whenever time would allow, and never once criticized Aaron.

     “How are you?” Aaron continued, “Did someone leave me a phonecall or something?”

     Gabriel tilted his head, “Since when have you had phonecalls?”

    “Oh,” Aaron shook his head, “I- Yeah- I thought- Maybe... What’s up?”

     Gabriel smiled, “I was just wondering if you were okay; Brother Haniel told me about your hurried little homecoming, and Daniel Two says your door wouldn’t open.”

     Aaron shrugged, “I’ve got homework. I’m quite tired, actually, school is very tiring, you know.”

    Gabriel nodded, “I know. Are you sure that’s all you want to tell me?”

    Aaron paused. Gabriel had left him a loophole - yes, there was more, but nothing he wanted to talk about - he shook his head, “Have a good evening, Gabriel.”

     “You too, Aaron.” Gabriel smiled again, then jogged away down the stairs.

     Aaron craned his neck out of the door, watching him go. He was good contender for his favourite person in the whole world; he wanted to be a friend just like Gabriel was. If anyone ever called Gabriel a… well, a bad word, they’d regret it instantly, he was sure. They’d have to wallow in their guilt until Gabriel decided to forgive them. Admittedly, that would be instantaneously, but we can’t all be Gabriel.

 

* * *

 

    Crowley didn’t wallow. That just wasn’t his style. However, he was adept at restless stress sleeping, moping, and pacing. In twelve hours, he had covered every inch of his lonely flat, trying to find a decent place to sleep, a comfortable carpet for pacing, or at least a wall he could stare at without the compulsion to punch its smug smooth face.

       There was a pile of cassette tapes in a corner; the Shining was boring and annoying the fiftieth time around, and his recording of the season finale of Golden Girls had somehow been recorded over for some Queen concert - even if that was kind of okay, it cut out halfway through and devolved into inexplicable demonic static.

     For the last hour, Crowley had been sprawled across the sofa in silence, trying to sleep, trying not to think, thinking far too much. He favoured this spot, perhaps for its good view of the phone.

     He felt like a prat. He’d feel like a prat, no matter what, for what he’d done - but spending all of Saturday sulking inconsolably was spectacularly stupid. He couldn’t defend it - but he couldn’t help it. He stared at the phone, willing it to ring, dreading it, and wondered when was the last time he watered his plants.  
  
He jumped on the opportunity for distraction, grabbing his spritzer and starting in the kitchen with Bastard the cactus (his eldest; three years) and Prick the slightly smaller cactus. He went through them all; Freddie, Brian, Roger, John, Freddy… He ran out of names, eventually, so they’d have to wait for a death to inherit a moniker. Once he reached the front door, making sure to give the small tree that stood there an extra bollocking and a careful and thorough watering, he felt far better. There’s nothing like threatening plants with weed killer baths to cleanse the psyche.  
  
It lasted perhaps a whole three minutes.  
  
He slunk over to his record player, hoping that perhaps a second search would yield something he could bear listening to. At the back of his collection, neglected and forgotten, was one of those Smiths albums. He didn’t really think much of them, but he was willing to give anything a go. He listened to it once, and gave up after the second track; what was the point of sad music? He could feel sad all for himself, thank you very much.  
  
He put it on.  
  
It was no masterpiece. He sat down on the sofa. He didn’t turn it off. He could kind of understand the sad music thing now. He sighed, shoving his face into a cushion - this was embarrassing. Listening to the Smiths, on a Saturday night, for a reason he was well aware of in an ‘edging around the issue as much as possible’ sort of way. It was pathetic.  
  
He wished the phone would ring. He wanted to rip it out of the wall.

 

* * *

  
  
“Cherub’s House, Barking. How may I help you?”  
  
“Uh. You the monastery?”  
  
“No, but we’re affiliated with the monastery. May I ask who’s calling?”  
  
“But you look after the kids, right?”  
  
“Who is this?”  
  
“My- my uh- uh… Someone I know gave me this number.”  
  
“Can I please know who’s calling?”  
  
“He’s probably asleep already he’s a total drip sorry for wasting your time ok thanks bye.”


	10. Monkeys on Caffeine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday. This was it. Either he showed up, or he didn’t. Aaron tried to be calm about it; technically, if Crowley didn’t show up, Aaron won. It didn’t feel that way. It felt like he’d lose everything, all these delicate little things he’d yet to even name would shatter, right there, at his feet.

Aaron hadn’t slept. He didn’t really do that much, and the more he read the more he supposed that was very very bad, but he was putting off getting into the habit for a New Year’s resolution. He had read all of his psychology books twice, and started rereading his copy of the book to Jesus Christ Superstar, when he heard the knock.  
  
He peered out of the door, “What time is it?” It was Gabriel again, and judging by his combed hair and nice clothes, it was Sunday morning. “Oh dear,” Aaron muttered.  
  
Gabriel laughed, “Aaron, do you never sleep? Come on, we all need to be there in time for choir to set up.”  
  
Aaron grimaced, “But I’m not in choir.”  
  
“Well, I am, and I’d quite like it to stay that way, so get dressed, kiddo.”  Aaron groaned, pushing the door closed, but Gabriel shoved his foot in the door, “Oh, and Aaron!”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I think someone called for you.”  
  
Aaron threw the door open, “What?”  
  
“Whoa, I said I think!” Gabriel spread his hands, “Someone - a child, from the sounds of it - called, saying their friend gave them this number.”  
  
Aaron beamed, “They said friend?”  
  
“Er. I don’t know. Although apparently they called whoever gave them the number a drip.”  
  
Aaron’s face fell, “Oh. Yeah…” He sighed, “That’s probably him.”  
  
“Do you want to talk about-” Aaron groaned, pushing the door and leaning against it. Well, that was that, then. Typical.  
  
Church was… fine. Well, it wasn’t _bad_ , just a little boring. Very boring. And all the little old ladies looked at him like he was some kind of fallen angel - they were gossips, the lot of them, and Aaron had overheard more than enough to have his misgivings.  
  
He tucked a book into the inner pocket of his tweed jacket, ready to get it over with.

* * *

 

Monday. This was it. Either he showed up, or he didn’t. Aaron tried to be calm about it; technically, if Crowley didn’t show up, Aaron won. It didn’t feel that way. It felt like he’d lose everything, all these delicate little things he’d yet to even name would shatter, right there, at his feet.  
  
He took the bus to school. He was tired of dodging cracks. He stared out of the window, unable to focus on anything. He watched the sunrise, and prayed the folklore was wrong about a red sky being a bad omen.

* * *

 

Eventually, fatigue had descended on Crowley, and he fell into a hazy sleep filled with strange scenes fueled by anxiety and alcohol. There was a demon, which chased him down a telephone wire and then melted like the Wicked Witch of the West in a puddle of holy water - Crowley didn’t really get that one, but it was terrifying - there was also a dream consisting of underwear, exam halls, and humiliation that was so cliche Crowley groaned himself awake. Others were… harder to think about; realistic dramatizations of all the ways Crowley had imagined seeing Aaron again could go, typically ending terribly. There were other ones, too - subjectively, nicer ones, but they left Crowley stirring and waking more than any.   
          He’d have to look up dream meanings, some time.

* * *

 

“I know how you feel,” Aaron muttered to the willow, which creaked mournfully in the wind. He pushed his hands further into his pockets, standing on his tiptoes to peer over crowds of students to spot Crowley sauntering his way, perhaps slightly downtrodden, ready to apologise profusely. He could see it; he’d stop before him, no longer looking around for what others think, and declaring how dreadful he felt, how much he regretted the entire ordeal. While Aaron stood, coolly, smiling serenely, Crowley would describe in detail all the ways he’d make it up to Aaron - books, music, a swear off teasing forever… his mind got lost in all the ways Crowley could make it up to him; he wasn’t as cold anymore.   
             Or maybe he’d just pretend it never happened. Maybe that would be okay. The bell rang, and Crowley was still not there. Aaron sighed, and dragged his feet inside.   


* * *

 

Crowley was only vaguely aware of reality, and barely aware of time, as he slipped in and out of consciousness - he had been convinced, at least three times, by midday that he had been at school. He had some recollection of staring at the phone, and noting the sinking feeling that drowned him as similar to someone painting your lungs purple.   
        Well, it beat being awake.

* * *

 

Aaron had a similar quandary regarding awareness of time; it slithered along like a drip, and slowly, slowly, slowly, the day seeped away. Aaron’s eyes were fixed always on doors and windows, hoping, always hoping.  
  
There had been a moment, in period 4, when he’d given up - he lowered his head, trying to pay attention to his practice papers. There was a loud and urgent rapping on the door - Aaron stood, dashing across the classroom to open the door. His face fell.  
  
Mr. B shoved Aaron aside, signalling out his football team, and he slammed the door in his face. Aaron swallowed; his heart had jumped into his throat. As the rush of adrenaline drained from his system, he had to sit down. He leant on the windowsill, staring down into the murky grey light.  
  
It grew progressively worse as the day continued. He sat down by the gate at midday and unpacked his lunch, staring out at the rush of cars and slow stream of pedestrians as he pretended to enjoy Brother Diniel’s lumpy homemade jam sandwiches. He wondered, as he watched, what his estranged friend was doing - was he out, going about his life like nothing had ever happened? Waltzing around Covent Garden and Camden Town, unchanged by the entire ordeal - unchanged by him. Perhaps he had reached some kind of breaking point, that day, and now… Well, it didn’t bear thinking about.  
  
He was probably just sleeping.  
  
He sighed, stuffing the empty plastic box into the bottom of his bad. He glanced back once, through the gate to the bus stop. He waited. Then, he turned, and sidled towards the library. There weren’t many people Aaron could talk to in life, but he knew one.  
  
He eventually found Ms. Daniels, after wandering around the school for ten minutes. She was huddled around a flask of tea outside of the porta-cabins, keeping an eye on the first years. She smiled when she saw Aaron, “Hey, you!”  
  
“Hi, Miss,” Aaron said, forcing a weak smile.  
  
Ms. Daniels noted the dull affect, and frowned, “Everything okay? How’s revision going?” She raised her eyebrows, looking around, “Where’s Tony?” Aaron laughed weakly. He covered his mouth, weak laugh growing into a wheezy chortle. “What’s so funny, Aaron?”  
  
Aaron kept laughing, shaking his head, until tears pricked in his eyes. He tried holding his breath, shaking and shaking his head. “Tony,” he muttered, and then broke into a fresh peal of greyish laughter that was nearly indistinguishable from snivelling.  
  
Ms. Daniels reached out, and put a hand on Aaron’s shoulder, “Is everything okay?”  
  
Aaron shrugged, “He didn’t come in today.”  
  
She frowned, pulling a sympathetic face, “You can’t blame yourself, love. Some people…” She thought, “Some people just can’t be told.”  
  
He scratched his head, “I suppose I don’t really blame myself. It’s not that he didn’t come… well, it is, but- but the last time I saw him, well…”  
  
“What happened?” She smiled, “Do I have to go find him and teach him a lesson?”  
  
Aaron widened his eyes, shaking his head vigorously, “Oh no, please don’t! Please don’t do that, miss, he’s really very nice and he didn’t mean it I promise and I don’t think he deserves that. He’s going through a lot, I think. If my theories are correct, then-”  
  
“It was a joke, sweetheart. What happened?”  
  
He sighed, putting a hand to his chest, “Oh, good. I wouldn’t want to see him come to harm. It’s silly, really. Monsieur Adam was getting to him, see, so he stormed out. And then, well, he said some things that weren’t very nice.”  
  
“About you?”  
  
Aaron nodded, “In retrospect, I suppose I should have known he’d say something like that at some point. I supposed- I thought he might be different. There was something about him.”  
  
Ms. Daniels tilted her head, “What is it he said?” Aaron looked at her and she shook her head, taking a sip of her tea, “It’s alright if you don’t want to tell me.”  
  
Aaron shook his head, looking out across the concrete, “Not particularly. I’m sorry. It was very, very rude. He’s genuinely quite rude, but this was surprising.”  
  
“Why do you think he said it?”  
  
Aaron pulled a face, “Because he thinks it’s true?”  
  
“Does he though?” she nudged him, “You know him better than me, of course, but maybe it’s complicated. For instance, it’s true that Mr. B stinks to high Hell - excuse my french - but I wouldn’t tell him that to his face-”  
  
“That’s because you’re nice, miss. Crowley’s not.”  
  
She shrugged, “Perhaps. Or maybe he’s lonely. I see a lot of children who bully - they’re lonely; they get in with a crowd of other lonely children, and they make other children lonely, to pretend they’re happy.” She frowned, “They were always so nice in the beginning.”  
  
“You think?” Aaron looked at her.  
  
She nodded, sipping her tea, “All of them. Your Crowley, he was the sweetest boy I taught that year. Very smart, too. An angel, if ever I’d met one. It’s strange, really, how people change.”  
  
Aaron stared at his feet, mumbling absentmindedly, “He calls me that a lot.”  
  
She looked at him, “What, strange?”  
  
“‘Angel.’”  
  
Ms. Daniels smiled, “You boys deserve eachother,” she laughed, tousling Aaron’s hair, “You’re both weirder than a barrel of monkeys on caffeine.” Aaron smiled weakly, and she patted his cheek, “Just hang in there; he’ll come around. I know it.”  
  
Aaron furrowed his eyebrows, smiling hesitantly, “How do you know?”  
  
She tapped her nose, “Mother’s intuition. Now off you pop, the bell’s going to go any second.”  
  
As Aaron walked away, the bell went, and Ms. Daniels laughed, shouting out, “Intuition!”


	11. A Big Steaming Pile of Morally Less than Ideal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley blinked, “I- I know. I didn’t know what to do. I never wanted to- I regret it. I really do.”  
> “Do you? What do you regret? Losing the bet, losing your dignity, or losing your best friend?”  
> “My best friend?”  
> “Yes- well- er,” Aaron paused, and huffed. Crowley smiled. “Answer the question,” said Aaron.
> 
> \--
> 
> finally, contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember, this is still nowhere near the end of the fic

Eventually, Crowley grew tired of sleep - which worried him. He got up, and did a semi-convincing impression of a functional human being; cleaning himself up and putting on nice clothes. He supposed he needed fresh air.  
  
He hovered at the door, tapping his keys against the wall. He was slowly realising he had nowhere to go. It was nearly four; normally he would be at the library now. Of course, he knew he could go anywhere else, but after years of routine - he didn’t really know how. Where else was there, now?  
  
When the phone rang, he yelled, pushing himself from the wall. He ran to the phone, watching it. The keys dug into his palm. It rang again. And again. Once more.  
  
“You’ve reached the Crowley residence,” came Crowley’s recorded voice, as low as it could go, “We’re probably busy or asleep, so leave a message after the beep.” He closed his eyes, heat rushing to his cheeks.  
  
“Is this Anthony Crowley? If it’s not please delete this message, thank you.” There was a pause. Crowley’s heart kept time against his ribs. “Crowley, I’ve been thinking about the incident, and you were clearly really upset, so, well, as your friend I feel I am morally obliged to make sure everything is…” Aaron sighed, “Look, I’m worried about you. Monsieur Adam was really very mean. Please tell me you’re okay.”  
  
The sting of keys leaving deep marks across his hand barely registered to Crowley as he stood before the phone, listening, trying to get a grip on the situation. The line was silent, a dim static filling the empty space. Crowley reached out to the receiver.  
  
“I miss you.” Aaron’s voice was quiet, sad, open. The words hung in the air with every ounce of feeling Aaron could fix to them, leaving nothing unsaid in the silent space between syllables. Crowley grabbed the receiver, pressing it to his ear,  
  
“Hi.”  
  
“Crowley?”  
  
“Yeah. Hi.”  
  
“Were you listening all that time?”  
  
“No, I… I was asleep. I just woke up. Sorry.”  
  
Aaron frowned audibly, “I knew it. Well, so long as you’re safe.”  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, leaning against the wall, “Of course I’m bloody safe - what could’ve happened to me?” He tossed his keys onto the sofa.  
  
“Well…” Aaron coughed. “Anyway. You didn’t come in today.”  
  
Crowley nodded, “Observant.”  
  
“Don’t snark me, Crowley. You didn’t come in. We had a deal. Do you have an excuse?”  
  
“I was sick.”  
  
“Were you?”  
  
“I was severely depressed.”  
  
Aaron groaned.  
  
Crowley smiled, “Sorry. I don’t think I’m lying though - I’ve never read a psychology book, but I felt like complete shit.”  
  
“Well, so would I if I’d done what you did.”  
  
“What? Storm out of class? That’s not that bad. Then again, this is you we’re talking about-”  
  
“I mean what you said! To me!”  
  
“I know. I was joking.”  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
Crowley gulped. Something about how Aaron spoke made him feel like his insides were quivering; like he was shrinking, soon he’d be microscopic. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“It was really horrible.”  
  
“It was.”  
  
“It really hurt.”  
  
“I could tell.”  
  
“And you just ran away!”  
  
“What else could I do?” Crowley muttered.  
  
“You could have stayed!” Aaron snapped, “You could have stayed, and apologised. You could have stopped for a second and thought about someone else for once in your God damned life!”

Crowley blinked, “I- I know. I didn’t know what to do. I never wanted to- I regret it. I really do.”  
  
“Do you? What do you regret? Losing the bet, losing your dignity, or losing your best friend?”  
  
“My best friend?”  
  
“Yes- well- er,” Aaron paused, and huffed. Crowley smiled. “Answer the question,” said Aaron.  
  
“I regret hurting you, that’s what.” There was a pause; each only hearing the other breathing through the line. Crowley waited, then said, “I might hate it, but I care about you. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I know you now, or because you radiate this aura of complete pathetic helplessness so it’s just instinct for anyone to care about you - you know, like a baby, or something - Or, I dunno, maybe you’ve just been there, and nobody else is, and that’s pretty great, all on its own. It’s pretty great. I don’t wanna ruin that, you’re right. But I don’t want to hurt you, Aaron. That’s the main thing.”

When Aaron spoke, he could hear him beaming, “Are you joking?”

Crowley laughed, “What? No! I’m being so sincere I’m embarrassed about it. I’m really sorry, Aaron.”

Aaron thought, then said, “Then I forgive you.”

If they’d been face to face, they would have smiled at eachother, and Aaron would probably try to touch Crowley’s hand, and Crowley didn’t think he’d take it away. They weren’t.

“So, we still need to consider, you know,” from Aaron’s end Crowley could hear the noises of a group of children coming back from school, chattering and pushing. Aaron moved away.

“Oi, who’s Aaron talking to?”

“Oh, bugger. Hang on a sec, Crowley…”

Crowley waited, listening to the muffled argument.

“Who’s that, Aaron, your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” snarked Aaron - who was far better at giving sarcasm than receiving - “He’s my satanic delinquent boyfriend, obviously. Who else would I ever talk to?”

There was a chorus of snickering, “What you talking about?”

“We’re planning a huge heist, of course-”

“Pack it in! The pair of you,” a kind but stern voice said.

“Thank you,” Aaron muttered as he moved to the other room, “Sorry about that.”

“So about this heist. Do you want to go subtle, or blow the bloody doors off? Are we doing an italian job or american hustle?”

“Oh, don’t you start!”

"But babe, how are we s’posed to get our honeymoon in Barbados without breaking a few banks?”

Aaron groaned, “You’re so… You’re the worst.”

“Sorry. Well, they’re a lovely lot, aren’t they?”

“Are you joking? They’re awful!”

“I was joking, you’re right.”

Aaron sighed, “Whatever. The question is have you lost the bet?”

“Er,” Crowley pulled a face, “You’re asking me?”

“Uhm. I suppose that would be silly, since you’d say no, of course. But you did come up with this whole bet game.”

“Well I am coming back in.”

“But I think I had made the terms clear that if you skip again, I’d ruin the book - which is the stakes as I understand them.”

“Yeah, but, like… It was one day.”

“I’m trying to do this properly.”

“Really? Because it sounds like you’re trying to push me away.”

“What?”

“Well, with no bet, why should I go to school?”

“I- Well, _I’m_ there!”

Crowley shrugged, “Eh. You’re other places too. Places without exams and Beelzebub.”

“But-”

“Wasn’t the whole point of this that I get my grades and that? It seems like it’s in your favour to give me a second chance.”

“You shouldn’t need a bet to have motivation!”

“Well, I do.” Crowley waited, listening to Aaron’s umming and ahhing about scruples and conduct, “Just break this teeny tiny rule for me, yeah?”

“I-”

“Please, angel.”

Aaron paused. Sometimes, when Crowley said things, it gave him a jolt he couldn’t explain; couldn’t name, for the life of him. Wouldn’t explain. Refused.  
He sighed. “Because I miss you - and because, more importantly, I care about your education, I’ll give you a second chance. I don’t like it, but I suppose-”

“The entire blackmail thing was a big steaming pile of morally less than idea from a completely neutral third party viewpoint anyway.”

“Precisely.”  
  
“And angel?”  
  
“Yes.”

“I missed you too.”


	12. So... French?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know, like, bonjour, je m'appelle Crowley, je suis… uh… Merde, va te faire foutre, putain-”  
> “I think that’s quite enough!” Aaron squeaked. Crowley smirked up at him, and he let out a small laugh.
> 
> \--
> 
> Still Monday, Crowley and Aziraphale figure out the whole french situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the french swearwords are from google, so anyone tell me if theyre wrong, or if they have any more crowley-ish ones thatd do the trick

Crowley pulled his coat collar up around his face, shuddering. They had arranged to meet outside the library, and Crowley offered to pay for Aaron’s taxi as part of his ‘making up for being a terrible excuse for a human being’ effort (Aaron’s idea.) It was also true, however, that taxis were faster, and that the sooner Aaron got here, the longer they could spend together. So it was win/win, really.  
  
A black cab pulled up, and Crowley jumped from the wall where he had been lurking half-heartedly. He jogged up to meet Aaron, who frowned as he climbed from the cab, “Sunglasses.”  
  
Crowley shook his head, “Good to see you too, angel. It’s a free country. How much?”  
  
“Uh…” Aaron took a moment to think, “Carry the two… Ten pounds.”  
  
Crowley raised an eyebrow, “That’s a bit much, you take a scenic route?”  
  
“I’m factoring in a tip.” Aaron smiled, “It’s good habit.” His smiled faltered for a second, “Wait, you can afford that, right?”  
  
Crowley let out a long sigh, “Yeah. Whatever. Because it’s you, and because I still feel like shit,” he pulled a twenty pound note from his pocket, “I don’t even have change, and honestly this is against everything I stand for - morally.” He paid the driver, who gave him a funny look, then thanked him and drove away. Aaron waved.  
  
Crowley shook his head, “You are one of a kind, Ziraphale.”  
  
Aaron looked at him, starting up the path to the library, “What happened to angel?”  
  
“What, you like that nickname? You know it’s not- you’re not meant to like it, Aaron. It’s supposed to be a mickey take.” Crowley followed him, hands in his pockets.  
  
“Well…” As they entered the warmth of the library, Aaron pulled off his scarf, “It’s a very flattering mickey.”  
  
They sat down at their table, and Crowley flashed the librarian a smile - she narrowed her eyes at him as she wrung her broom handle. Aaron began emptying his bag of books, “So, french!”  
  
Crowley slouched, grimacing, “Whoop-de-doo.”  
  
Aaron smiled, arranging his exercise book, his dictionary, his textbook, his other textbook, his _other_ textbook, his book of neat notes, and a spare notebook for Crowley across the table, “You did ask for help. Which I’m actually really happy about; it means you care, which is, for you, extraordinary.”  
  
“I miss ordinary,” Crowley muttered, picking up the biro Aaron had put down on his notebook, fiddling with the cap, “Ordinary was nice and easy.”  
  
Aaron stopped, looking at him.  
  
Crowley raised his eyebrows, “What?”  
  
Aaron turned back to his books, “Oh, nothing, just. ‘Ordinary.’” He snorted.  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, pushing his chair closer, “So, like, how’s this gonna work?”  
  
“Well…” Aaron flicked to a page in the first textbook, and opened a page of his exercise book, “I think the problem we have is that Monsieur Adam doesn’t really let us work together. You work quite well with me; you’ve gone up two grades in english in a week!”  
  
“I mean, I was always that good, I was just playing along.”  
  
“Right. So if we just do what we do in every other lesson-”  
  
“What do you mean, ‘right’?”  
  
Aaron sighed, “Can we not do this?”  
  
“No, I’m just saying, I’ve always been adept at - well, most things - I just don’t like effort. So I was just being lazy at the start, I was always great in english.”  
  
“Yeah, okay, the clock is ticking, Crowley.”  
  
Crowley groaned, leaning on his hand and looking to the textbook, “So… french?”  
  
Aaron stopped for a moment, looking at him. That was… fast. Barely an argument at all. Crowley was being, well, really really civil. It was weird. It was brilliant.  
  
Crowley coughed, shifting in his seat. He fiddled with a corner of the textbook. Aaron shook his head, “Yeah. Well, should we start at the basics?”  
  
“I know, like, bonjour, je m'appelle Crowley, je suis… uh… Merde, va te faire foutre, putain-”  
  
“I think that’s quite enough!” Aaron squeaked. Crowley smirked up at him, and he let out a small laugh. He turned to the book, “We should go over the basics then, just to be sure. Did you bring your book?”  
  
“I don’t really have one… So I brought all the bits of paper I’ve been using...”  
  
Aaron sighed. “Well, luckily, I picked up your test paper; I think we should go over all your ‘baguettes.’”  
  
They spent hours bent over french books, leaning in to whisper vocabulary and pronunciation. Crowley watched Aaron sound out ‘c’est que ce’ and ‘pomme de terre,’ and ignored the bothersome internal hurricane. Aaron was nasal, with a rather high, feminine voice, and a tendency to forget intonation - that didn’t change in french. If anything, he sounded more like a tree of monkeys on nitrous oxide than ever before.   
       Crowley had to ask him to repeat himself far too often.  
  
If Aaron had anything going for him, however, it was his focus; he focused soulfully on teaching Crowley a language he barely understood himself, and only when he was on a bus home (They both agreed a taxi home as well was pushing it) contemplating how much progress they’d made, could he stop to zoom out. Crowley was not nasal, his voice wasn’t really very high, or very feminine. It was dark purple, and rather velvet, and always sounded considerably nonchalant. This changed in french. He stuttered through the language, pausing and flattening the round parts, drawing out the short parts - he sounded so unsure, and it was strange. Lots of things were strange about Crowley.  
        He wanted to start asking him to repeat himself.


	13. Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was fun, being sort of bad. That really is all they were; sort of. Crowley, while erring on the bad side, was sort of good - maybe even alright. Aaron, as morally superior as he saw himself to Crowley, was actually sort of bad. He read books in church, he slacked off with his best friend (best friend!) and he even engaged in casual, morally less than ideal blackmail and gambling - although he really didn’t suppose that was the reason Crowley was still coming to school. They were friends, after all. Best friends.
> 
> \--
> 
> Crowley looks like he's turned over a new leaf, meanwhile, little clouds of trouble have started forming over the Cherubs' House sky, and Gabriel has some advice for Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: food, low levels of religious homophobia

Tuesday, Crowley came to school, and he complained about being tired, and cold, and bored, but he stayed. He worked with Aaron, and he argued less, and smiled more. They both did.  
  
“What’s that?” Aaron eyed the paper bag Crowley had produced from his bag as they sat either side of a bench at lunch.  
  
“Well,” Crowley explained, unrolling the paper and reaching inside, “You kind of pull this… face when you eat your lunch. And it looks fucking disgusting - your lunch, not your face. So…” From the bag he pulled a packet of crisps, a muffin, a pack of jaffa cakes, and two coffees. “It’s not _all_ for you.”  
  
Aaron laughed, shaking his head, “This is your lunch?”  
  
“Our lunch, I guess. What’s wrong with it?”  
  
Aaron slouched his shoulders, putting on an exaggerated impression of Crowley, “Aaroooooon! I’m so hungry! This place is trying to poison me, Aaron. It’s trying to starve me! Why can’t I just go out at lunch? They’ll never knooooooooow.”  
  
Crowley shoved him, “None of it’s for you if you keep up like this. This is a new thing, I stocked up. Before now I just had, like, microwave chips, microwave pizza, and nutella. Have you tried un-microwaved microwave chips? Don’t.”  
  
Aaron grimaced, “You have?”  
  
“No. I just have common sense.” He ripped open the jaffa cakes and stuffed one into his mouth. He lifted his coffee, “It’s hardly the Ritz, but, to not pulling stupid faces while eating.”  
  
Aaron rolled his eyes, picking up the other coffee, which - to his surprise - was still warm. He stared down into it, “We’re not really allowed coffee at the home.”  
  
Crowley nodded, swirling his about a bit, “I figured. Weird, religious kids home. I’d be surprised if you’d ever had bloody jaffa cakes.”   
  
Aaron gave him a guilty look.  
  
“What? Really?” Crowley sat forward, pushing a jaffa cake into Aaron’s face, “We are changing that. Right now.”  
  
It was fun, being Crowley’s best friend - fun, but stressful. Well, maybe it wasn’t; perhaps Crowley was just as difficult a friend as any other person, but Aaron had no point of reference. For all he knew, all these complicated feelings - the anxiety rising in his chest and the shame sinking in his stomach - were unique to being around Crowley.

Either way, it was still clear that as much as Aaron had an influence on Crowley, the alternate was also true, but perhaps in the opposite direction. The pair spent the last hour of the day in RS, talking and trying to throw little balls of paper into the bin at the front of class. Crowley won, scoring 10 more than Aaron - who missed spectacularly 70% of the time, including an astonishing collision with the back of the substitute teacher’s head. Crowley took the blame, so Aaron cleaned up all the bits of paper that didn’t get in.  
  
It was fun, being sort of bad. That really is all they were; sort of. Crowley, while erring on the bad side, was sort of good - maybe even alright. Aaron, as morally superior as he saw himself to Crowley, was actually sort of bad. He read books in church, he slacked off with his best friend _(best friend!)_ and he even engaged in casual, morally less than ideal blackmail and gambling - although he really didn’t suppose that was the reason Crowley was still coming to school. They were friends, after all. Best friends.  
  
He smiled into his mashed potato, which he was stirring around his plate absentmindedly, blotting out the chatter of the dinner-table. Crowley really was his best friend, he’d really said that he cared about him, all of that really happened. He had been right - Crowley really was, deep down, a loner with a heart of gold. Or, at least, a heart of copper ore.  
  
“Is something wrong, Aaron?” Brother Haniel asked.   
  
Aaron looked up, tucking away his smile, “What?”  
  
Brother Haniel sighed, “ _‘Excuse me.’_ Is everything alright? You’ve barely eaten.”  
  
A few boys turned their attention from discussions of football and inside jokes of their own respectable schools.  
  
“Is it that _ruffian_ you picked up?” One asked.  
  
Aaron scowled, “I did not _pick him up!_ And he’s no ruffian, actually. He’s very smart, and interesting, and nicer than he’d have you believe by a long shot.”  
  
The boy frowned, “But you said he was a hopeless ruffian truant-”  
  
“Oh did I?” Aaron snapped, “Did I? Well, if memory suits you, you’ll remember that yesterday I said I had a demonic delinquent boyfriend, and we were planning a heist together. Now was that true? Was that true, Ariel? Was-”  
  
“Hang on a second.” Brother Haniel held his hand out between the two, “What are you saying, Aaron? Do we need to have a talk with the reverend?”  
  
Aaron shrank into his seat, burning at the face, “What? No!” Everyone laughed, and he shouted, “No! Shut up! I was being sarcastic! It was a joke!” He dwindled under Brother Haniel’s cold stare, muttering, “They started it.”  
  
Brother Haniel shook his head, returning to eating, “One should refine one’s humour - remember, you praise the Lord with the same mouth with which you say these things. Sarcasm is a pathetic form of humour, at best. Eat your dinner.”  
  
Aaron turned to his suddenly horribly unappealing dinner, and fiddled with his fork. He scowled into his peas as conversation slowly returned to normal. His chest felt tight, and the shame in his stomach was having a good go at dragging him down to the pits of hell. He was already there, he thought.

He jumped when a gentle hand landed on his shoulder. Gabriel smiled, “Hey, Brother Haniel, can I borrow Aaron for a second? He doesn’t seem very hungry, and I need a hand.”  
  
Brother Haniel looked his younger up and down, then waved him away. Aaron stood, and followed Gabriel into the hallway.  
  
Gabriel leant against the wall, smiling softly, “I heard shouting, thought you’d appreciate a get-out.”  
  
Aaron stared at Gabriel, then glanced back to the closed door of the dining room. He beamed, “Thank you! That was ruddy awful!”  
  
Gabriel nodded, “What was it this time?”  
  
A look of guilt flitted across Aaron’s face, then came back and camped there, “Remember the phone call, yesterday?”  
  
“The one where I had to save you from David G.’s prying?” Gabriel sat down on the stairs, and Aaron sat down beside him. He nodded.  
  
“Well, I let slip what it is I said, and then everyone laughed…”  
  
Gabriel shrugged, “That’s not so bad. They’ve done worse, I’m sure.”  
  
Aaron picked at the paint on the banister, “Yeah, but…” he sighed, “You wouldn’t get it.”  
  
Gabriel laughed, “Kids always think that. Try me.” Aaron stared at him. “Is this about what was upsetting you over the weekend?”  
  
Aaron pulled a face, “In a way, I suppose…”  
  
“Your friend, was that who you were calling?”  
  
Aaron looked down, smiling, “Yeah. Everything’s fine there. I think. Yeah. Fine.”  
  
“You don’t sound sure.”  
  
“It’s fine! More than fine, it’s great.” He turned to Gabriel, beaming manically, “I’ve got a best friend!” he whispered, “A really cool best friend! Who I can talk to, and go places with, and everything!”  
  
“Then what’s wrong?”  
  
Aaron’s smile faded, “I… I don’t know.” He looked down, “Having a best friend is stressful. There’s lots of feelings involved, you know?”  
  
“What kind of feelings?” Gabriel asked.  
  
“Er.” Aaron glanced about, fidgeting, “Feely feelings? I don’t know.”  
  
Gabriel sighed, putting his hand on Aaron’s shoulder, who looked up at him. Gabriel wasn’t much older than the oldest child at Cherubs’ House, but sometimes he radiated such maturity and wisdom, nobody would be surprised if he said he was 6000 years old.  
  
“Can I tell you something about friends, Aaron? About relationships, in general.”  
  
“Uh, sure.”  
  
“Honesty.”  
  
Aaron waited, expecting Gabriel to go on, “Uh… Yeah. Honesty. What of it?”  
  
“It’s very important. In fact, it’s the most important thing.”  
  
“I’m honest with him,” Aaron said unsurely.  
  
Gabriel nodded, “I’m sure you are. You’re not much of a liar, Aaron, you’re really bad at it. Maybe you’re too honest, maybe that’s why you get so much flack.”  
  
Aaron frowned, “Are you saying I should lie to my friend?”  
  
Gabriel laughed, shaking his head, “No, no! I was going to say, while you’re very honest with everyone, you can only be honest with others about what you’re honest to yourself about.”  
  
Aaron nodded slowly, “I understand.”  
  
Gabriel smiled at him, “You’re a terrible liar. What I mean is - are you being honest with yourself?”  
  
Aaron opened his mouth, then closed it. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, and pushed up his glasses, thinking. How would you know if you were lying to yourself, anyway?  
  
“Lying to yourself can lead to, you know, feelings,” Gabriel explained, “Feely ones.”  
  
“Then…” Aaron looked at him, “What am I lying to myself about?”  
  
Gabriel shrugged, “I think it’s less that you’re lying, more that you’re withholding the truth.”  
  
“But what about?”  
  
Gabriel shook his head, “That’s for you to figure out, I’m afraid. Go on,” he nodded up the stairs, “I’ll make an excuse for you.”  
  
Aaron smiled at him and started up the stairs, stopping when Gabriel called up, “Oh, and Aaron? Remember that when we’re honest to ourselves, and to others, they’ll still love us. If someone ever loved you, there’s nothing you can tell them that would make them cast you away. Don’t ever be afraid of honesty, okay?”  
  
Aaron nodded, trying to process this confusing exchange, “Right. Okay. Thanks.”


	14. Move Aside, Oscar Wilde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron had felt deja vu before; most characteristically, when reading about the Buggre Alle This Bible, and once when this rather odd looking young woman on a bicycle stared right at him as she cycled past. Every time, it perplexed him, but never more than with Crowley. Like they’d met in a dream; he couldn’t quite remember it, but it was always there, at the edge of his memory, tantalisingly close, frustratingly so. Maybe he was just withholding it.

Honesty. Gabriel was very smart, so Aaron trusted that he was right - about something. What was he even lying to himself about? Or ‘withholding the truth’ about, that is. He had been turning the thought over all night, and, fruitless, had now resorted to turning it inside out throughout the day.  
  
Maybe he was withholding a truth about his feelings - the weird, feely ones. He watched Crowley - everything he couldn’t understand could be found somewhere in Crowley, he thought. It was like there was something more to them both, like they’d been doing this since the beginning of time. He leant on his hand, watching Crowley talk about - oh, something or other - and his chest tightened. When he looked past the anxiety, the dizzy feeling, the sinking, the butterflies, there was something else at the centre of it all - familiarity.  
  
Aaron had felt deja vu before; most characteristically, when reading about the Buggre Alle This Bible, and once when this rather odd looking young woman on a bicycle stared right at him as she cycled past. Every time, it perplexed him, but never more than with Crowley. Like they’d met in a dream; he couldn’t quite remember it, but it was always there, at the edge of his memory, tantalisingly close, frustratingly so. Maybe he was just withholding it.  
  
“And they’ve got this one car,” Crowley carried on, sat with his legs up on a bench beside Aaron, “And it’s the actual, real, genuine car that they used in- Are you even listening?”  
  
Aaron continued to stare at Crowley, dazed, leant on the back of the bench, for a moment longer. He lifted his head, blinking, “What?”  
  
Crowley threw his arms up, “You weren’t listening!”  
  
Aaron blushed, smiling sheepishly, “Sorry. What were you saying?”  
  
Crowley shook his head, crossing his leg under himself. He glanced about, as he did every so often, self consciously. “I was just saying, like, there’s this really cool car show only half an hour away, and I could be there right now, but no. I’m here. With a little prat who won’t even listen to me _talk_ about the bloody thing.” Aaron laughed. Crowley scowled, leaning forward, “What’s so funny? I’m being serious! This place is so cool, and the least you could do is listen. I listen to you when you talk about, like - okay, you don’t actually talk about your interests. That’s weird.”  
  
“I’m weird? You’re weird!” Aaron shook his head, smiling at Crowley, “You talk like- like if someone took a background character from the godfather and raised him in Dagenham, and then you’re all about these classic cars and the golden girls - but you’re sixteen! What sixteen year old can name three different makes of Bentley? Weird. And then you look like some kind of model, but-”  
  
“Aw, thanks!” Crowley smirked, “You think I look like a model? That’s really…”  
  
Aaron waved his hands, “No, no, I mean you _dress_ like one. All… Gucci or something. Expensive stuff.”  
  
“Nice guess,” Crowley pulled at his coat, “It’s actually McQueen.”  
  
“Whatever!” Aaron huffed, spreading his decidedly un-manicured hands, “The point is, you’re really weird. That’s why I was laughing. Why does a teenager have an obsession with classic cars?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “Why does a teenager have an obsession with…” he frowned, “Psychology?”  
  
“Well…” Aaron fiddled with his hair, “Okay, touche.”  
  
Crowley smiled, turning to Aaron, “But, like, what do you actually like? I really have no idea. Is there some other side of Aaron Ziraphale I’ve never met?”  
  
Aaron stared at him, “You mean have I been withholding the truth from you?”  
  
Crowley frowned, perplexed, “Uh… Sure. What?”  
  
Aaron shook his head, “Never mind.” He sighed, thinking, “I like books-”  
  
“Duh.”  
  
“And musicals. I _love_ musicals. And… Well, I do like music. But not really modern stuff. Be-bop. That’s not my thing. I like the proms, you know? Classical music. And… And I have a mild interest in…” He petered out, partly because he could no longer be heard over Crowley’s laughter. “What?”  
  
Crowley put his hands over his mouth, “Be-bop?”  
  
Aaron frowned, “What of it?”  
  
Crowley ran a hand through his hair, “You know, if you asked every single human being alive to describe modern music, not one of them - besides you - would even _think_ of the word be-bop.”  
  
Aaron sat up. There it was again; the insatiable feeling of repetition. He wanted to hold onto the feeling, bottle it in a jar to scrutinise to the point of understanding, but it was fleeting, passing through him like a gust of wind. It was gone. “Then what would you call it?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, spreading his arms across the back of the bench (they spread past Aaron; he couldn’t ignore it) “Pop? I dunno. Also,” he nudged Aaron, “That whole musical thing might be the source of a lot of the laughing gas gags.”  
  
Aaron frowned, “What do you mean?” (He could feel Crowley’s arm, it was really bothering him, he couldn’t ignore it.)  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, “Musicals are gay, angel. Like, they’re up there with veganism and Oscar Wilde.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Crowley raised his eyebrows, looking at Aaron, “You like Oscar Wilde, don’t you?”  
  
Aaron chewed at his lip, shifting in his seat.  
  
Crowley shook his head, looking around, “You just fall on your arse backwards into every gay trope in existence. I’m surprised you don’t like Madonna and that.”  
  
Aaron gasped, “Madonna’s not gay!”

Crowley laughed, “Her fans are!”  
  
Aaron huffed, folding his arms, “I don’t like Madonna.”  
  
“Well done. You’ve really proven your heterosexuality there.”  
  
“My what?”  
  
Crowley sighed, “Your straightness.”  
  
Aaron furrowed his brow, “How do you know so much about this?”  
  
Crowley snaked his arm away, shrugging and fiddling with his watch, “I’m a modern man of the world, Aaron.”  
  
Aaron stared at him. “What does that mean?” Aaron asked, in the way someone would ask what ‘the apocalypse is nigh’ means.  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, “It means I know this stuff, because everyone does. Everyone who doesn’t call modern music be-bop, anyway.” Crowley didn’t really know who did or didn’t know the meaning of heterosexual, or if Oscar Wilde’s sexuality was common trivia - but he knew Aaron had no other friends, so it was fine.  
  
Silence ensued. Crowley turned to Aaron, “Does it bother you?”  
  
He tilted his head, “Does what bother me?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “That I’m ‘weird,’”  
  
Aaron shook his head, “I guess we have that in common.”  
  
He smiled. They both smiled.

 

* * *

“Okay, let’s see…” Aaron muttered, scanning Crowley’s latest practice paper and pulling out a mark scheme saturated with highlighter, “Well, your handwriting’s definitely improved.”  
  
Crowley watched him, legs crossed, calm, confident. He was sure about this one; he’d waded through tonnes of past papers and example texts in the past week and a half, and he really was getting the hang of it. He could identify what he needed to write about in seconds, dropping in buzzwords like a literary Hansel, throwing about semicolons and direct address with ease. He’d prove Aaron wrong; he was the fucking best at english and nobody could outdo him.  
  
He lived most of his life out of spite like this.  
  
A warm smile spread across Aaron’s face as he covered the paper in red ink. He handed it back to Crowley, beaming, “That’s an A* in the bag!”  
  
Crowley stared at him for a second, “I can never tell when you’re being sarcastic.”  
  
Aaron shook his head, “It’s really, really good. I like what you did with the-”  
  
Crowley snatched the paper from Aaron, thrusting it into the air, “Fuck yeah, baby!” He shouted. Aaron stared at him, perplexed, as he carried on, “Suck on that, Aaron. ‘Right,’ my arse, I am the english champion. Unbeatable.” He kissed the paper, “Move aside, Oscar fucking Wilde, there’s a new literary genius in town.”  
  
Crowley grinned at Aaron - no, he beamed. He beamed at Aaron, arms folded, giddy with pride. A tidal wave was rising in Aaron’s chest, and it was pushing him forwards, towards Crowley with such force; such pride. He beamed, and it was like the stars had been fashioned to mimic the fleeting and distant beauty of it. Aaron wanted to stop time.  
  
Crowley turned to see the two students with the playing cards from that distant monday shuffle away to a different desk, eyeing the pair of them as if they were coughing up some horrible airborne disease.  
  
He turned back to Aaron, eyebrows raised. They stared at eachother, then they laughed. They really did have something in common, Crowley thought. Weird, he thought.


	15. Nail Polish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley began to slowly translate the paragraph, more or less accurately, guided along by Aaron’s finger and few helpful corrections here and there. It was going exceptionally for two whole lines.  
> “In the… In the- In the-”  
> “It’s a time of day, Crowley, think about it.”  
> “Your finger’s bleeding.”
> 
> \--
> 
> Crowley offers a solution to Aaron's nail biting problem.

“Okay, so,” Aaron pointed to a paragraph in his french textbook, “What does that say?”

Crowley leant across the table, frowning at the text, “Uh… Something about hobbies.”

“No,” Aaron tapped the page, sighing, “You have to be more detailed for the test, or else you’ll be stuck saying they take a baguette class. Read it out.”

“In french or-”

_ "En anglais.” _

__ “Okay.”

Crowley began to slowly translate the paragraph, more or less accurately, guided along by Aaron’s finger and few helpful corrections here and there. It was going exceptionally for two whole lines.

“In the… In the- In the-”

“It’s a time of day, Crowley, think about it.”

“Your finger’s bleeding.”

A small smear of blood was in fact pooling in the corner of Aaron’s nail. “Oh, fooey!” he muttered, shoving his finger into his mouth, “Sorry. Go on.”  
  
Crowley had forgotten the work, sitting up. He turned his head, “You bite your nails?”  
  
“I try not to,” Aaron shrugged, wiping his finger on his trousers and inspecting it. Crowley took it, and Aaron opened his mouth to argue, but didn’t.  
  
“Fucking hell, you really do. I figured you’d have, like, some kind of portable manicure set, always preening or buffing or whatever.” He held Aaron’s hand up to his face, grimacing at the rather mauled appearance of nails half their natural length.  
  
“Well, what’s the point if I’m always biting them? Maybe one day, when I’m less anxious.”  
  
Crowley smirked, looking at him, “You’re anxious?”  
  
Aaron nodded, “I believe so. That’s often a cause of nail biting, and other such body focused repetitive behaviour.”  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, turning Aaron’s hand over. He put his palm to Aaron’s, “You know what stops you biting your nails?”  
  
Aaron shook his head, forlorn, “I’m afraid I’ve tried-”  
  
“Nail polish.”  
  
“-Almost… everything.” Aaron pulled his hand away, looking at Crowley, “That works?”  
  
Crowley nodded, leaning back on his chair, “You ever worn it? Tastes minging. And, like, you’d end up tearing it off and then your nails feel all eugh, plus, it kinda gives you motivation to keep it all nice and neat.”  
  
Aaron shook his head slowly, “How do you know all this?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, tipping his chair back, “Modern man of the world.”  
  
Aaron frowned, “You’re telling me everyone - even boys - know about the details nail varnish?”  
  
Crowley sighed, rolling his head back, “How should I know? Why you so curious, anyway?” He tipped his chair back onto all four legs, leaning on the desk, “You wanna try my miraculous remedy or not?”  
  
Aaron tutted, “I can’t imagine anything _you_ produce being _miraculous_ , but…” He nodded, smiling, “That would be nice.”  
  
“Okay, then,” Crowley glanced out the window; it was late, “Bring some money tomorrow, we can stop in Boots or wherever.”  
  
Aaron frowned, folding his arms, “I don’t know how I feel about being seen in such a public place in such a manner.”  
  
Crowley groaned, “You’re unbelievable! Aaron, okay, you need to listen to me right now,” he sat forward, putting his hand on Aaron’s shoulder, “Everyone thinks you’re gay, whether you’re buying nail polish or a Big Boobed Babes magazine.”  
  
Aaron gasped, putting a hand to his chest and going red. Crowley laughed, throwing his arms up, “I’m not saying you are! Or that you would! I’m just saying - That’s the truth. Like, if your teeth were already rotten beyond repair, why would you avoid sweets for fear of ruining them?”  
  
Aaron pulled a face, thinking. He frowned, nodding, “Okay, well… it really does bother me, so if you really think it’ll work…” He pointed at Crowley, “You’re paying.”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “Yeah, sure, no problemo.”


	16. Dismal? Dysfunctional? Disappointment?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsieur Adam fixed him with a warning glare as he dropped the heavy pile of papers on his desk. He surveyed the classroom, eyes scrupulously narrowed; as Crowley had improved, Monsieur Adam had moved everyone a desk apart from him, moved him further still from the board, and watched him closely in all assessments. He was running out of ideas as to how he could be cheating. He scowled, picking up the top paper. The devil’s luck, that must be it.
> 
> \--
> 
> The latest french test yields surprising results.

French lessons remained a constant battle; Crowley and Monsieur Adam were constantly at odds, fighting like heaven and hell, and Crowley had started an internal bet pertaining to how many times he could be sentenced to the kane. He didn’t care much if he was threatened with a thrashing; he’d always snake his way out of it. The prodigious ability to consistently both be a little devil and get away with it baffled Aaron to no end.

While Crowley made a point of nonchalantly announcing every impertinent statement and snide comment, taking no care for volume control, it was still undeniable that - academically - he was progressing.

Quite fast, actually. In any case, Crowley wasn’t unintelligent, just vastly unmotivated; lazy. But Aaron’s bet and the allure of Monsieur Adams red-faced as he begrudgingly hands him his rising grades were the perfect stick and carrot, which, surprisingly, works just as well on both donkeys and snakes.

Crowley and Aaron were thoroughly prepared for their next test, and sauntered into the classroom with enough infuriating confidence to give Monsieur Adam a fit - mainly on Crowley’s part; Aaron, on principle, didn’t saunter, nor swagger or strut.

Monsieur Adam liked his students cowering in fear and on the verge of collapse from anxiety; anything less was a direct insult to his teaching.

Crowley resisted the urge to tick off every answer as ‘baguette’ this time, and only wrote it once, when he really didn’t know the answer. All in all, he supposed he’s been frightfully good.  
  
The lesson after, he was sat on Aaron’s desk, describing in detail the brilliantly accurate caricature of Monsieur Adam he’d drawn on the mback of the paper, and how he was hoping to get extra marks for it, when a cane thwacked across his knee. He stood to his full height, looming over Monsieur Adam menacingly, offended by the intrusion.  
  
“One does not,” Monsieur Adam said, coolly, glowering up at Crowley, “Lollygag in my class.” Crowley raised his eyebrows, and Monsieur Adam pointed with his cane, “To your seat!” He commanded.  
  
Crowley glanced to Aaron, who pleaded wordlessly for him to not make a scene this time. He rolled his eyes, snaking his way to the back of the classroom and slinking into his seat.

Monsieur Adam fixed him with a warning glare as he dropped the heavy pile of papers on his desk. He surveyed the classroom, eyes scrupulously narrowed; as Crowley had improved, Monsieur Adam had moved everyone a desk apart from him, moved him further still from the board, and watched him closely in all assessments. He was running out of ideas as to how he could be cheating. He scowled, picking up the top paper. The devil’s luck, that must be it.

“It seems you are not disappointing me ‘orrendously, class, only mildly. I wouldn’t be surprised if you…” he gritted his teeth, “ _All_ manage to pass ze final exam, alzough I severely doubt _any_ of you will go on to be successful linguists or ‘onourary frenchmen.” He sighed, muttering, “C’est la vie,” and began his usual antagonistic routine.  
  
Aaron turned around in his seat, grinning at Crowley and holding up both thumbs. Crowley rolled his eyes, making a point of not returning the gesture. He watched Monsieur Adam’s progression, then turned back to Aaron. He pointed at himself, smirking, and mouthed ‘I’m gonna beat you.’  
  
Aaron laughed, mouthing ‘no way!’   
  
Crowley nodded, folding his arms behind his head, ‘landslide,’  
  
Aaron frowned, ‘wanna bet?’  
  
Crowley shrugged, looking nonchalantly out the window. Both were oblivious to the silent sigh of exasperation that had waved through the classroom.  
  
Monsieur Adam dropped Aaron’s paper before him with a sigh, “Perhaps if you stopped talking to your little boyfriend for one second, you would achieve something of worth,” he spat, in french, so Aaron didn’t really care what he was saying, his attention stolen by the letter scrawled across his paper in red; D.  
  
Crowley watched, from a distance. He craned his neck, trying to get Aaron’s attention by tapping his pen against the desk. He frowned; why was he ignoring him? Had he upset him (again)? He didn’t think he could take another sincere and heart-wrenching apology, he was supposed to be cold, distant, and cynical, dammit.  
  
He watched Aaron leaf through his paper, until Monsieur Adam arrived at him. Crowley put on a brave smirk, jutting out his chin. Monsieur Adam grimaced, decorating every delicate french syllable in loathing, “Whether this is devious cheating, or devil’s luck, mark my words, I will thwart you.” He threw the paper at Crowley, who caught it and grinned. B.  
  
It was a low B, barely above a C, but it was still a good and safe pass, which was amazing. He waved, trying to get Aaron’s attention even harder than before, his grin slowly fading. It was no use; either Aaron looked back at him by choice, or they waited until the end of class.  
  
When the bell went, Crowley dashed to Aaron’s desk, bag already packed. He opened his mouth, but was cut off, “Three marks!” Aaron said, disgruntled and disappointed, “I was off by three bleeding marks!”  
  
Crowley frowned, leaning on the desk, “What did you get?”  
  
Aaron shoved the paper in his face, scowling, “A D! A big, fat, sodding D! D for… um…”  
  
“Dismal? Dysfunctional? Disappointment?”  
  
“Yes, that’s the one!” Aaron pointed.  
  
Crowley tilted his head, “Which one?”  
  
Aaron huffed, shoving his books into his bag, “All of them!” He shouted, pushing past Crowley and into the hallway.  
  
Crowley snaked after him, smirking subtly. He shook his head, “Man, that is just too bad.”  
  
“I know what it was,” Aaron said as he navigated the narrow corridors of the West Block.  
  
“Just bad luck, y’know. Life is a fucking bitch.”  
  
“No, of course not. Luck, psh. It was question five. It threw me because there were too many answer As, so I panicked.”  
  
Crowley nodded, “Yeah. That bleeding question five. Who does it think it is.”  
  
Aaron sighed, “Yeah. What did you put for it?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets, “The right answers.”  
  
Aaron slowed down, looking up at his friend, “So… what did _you_ get?”  
  
Crowley smiled like a snake down at him, “A good, solid B.” Aaron stopped, and his mouth hung open, gaping up at him.  “Well…” Crowley shrugged, glancing about, “Okay, a low B, but still.”  
  
He watched as Aaron’s gape turned into a maniacal grin, his hands rising up and flapping about excitedly. It took Crowley a moment to realise where the high-pitched squealing noise was coming from. “That’s. So. _GREAT!”_ Aaron screeched, extending his arms around Crowley, who laughed nervously.  
  
Aaron squeezed him, tight, around the middle, pressing the side of his face into Crowley’s chest. “I’m so, so proud of you,” he said.  
  
Crowley floundered. His arms held out, bewildered, he glanced around. “Aaron,” he muttered, teeth gritted, “Aaron, people are staring…”  
  
Aaron wrinkled his nose, “Oh, let them stare. Whatever. You got a B! In french! It’s a miracle!”  
  
Crowley sighed, running a hand through his hair, “Laughing gas…”  
  
“What?” Aaron opened his eyes. He looked up at Crowley, then around at the few passing students who were eying them, giggling behind hands, nudging eachother. “Oh,” he gently shoved Crowley away, “Laughing gas.”  
  
“C’mon,” Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets, smiling at Aaron and nodding down the hall, “We’ll be late. And then you’d have some kind of malfunction.”  
  
Aaron shook his head, walking with Crowley, “Your turns of phrase are so weird, demon.”  
  
“ERROR. ERROR. LATENESS DOES NOT COMP- what?” Crowley frowned at Aaron, who shrugged.  
  
“I’m honestly convinced you make them up yourself.”  
  
Crowley shook his head, “No, but- what? What did you just call me?”  
  
“Oh, ‘demon,’” Aaron nodded nonchalantly.  
  
Crowley grimaced, “Don’t.”  
  
Aaron frowned, “But, it’s just- it’s to go with you calling me-”  
  
“It’s weird,” Crowley shook his head.  
  
“I suppose perhaps it’s rather rude - spectacularly rude, if taken seriously - but it’s all in jest!”  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, sighing, “Just don’t.”  
  
Aaron nodded slowly, muttering, “Right… Sorry.” Crowley shrugged.  
  
They walked without talking, dawdling a tad, then Crowley asked, “We still on for this evening?”  
  
“Are you still paying?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Then, sure.”


	17. Suspended in a Second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron stood, folded his arms, and tried to look stern as he stood beside Crowley and read ‘GOD IS DEAD’ scrawled in black nail varnish, and a little sharpie, across the Maxfactor shelf. Crowley laughed first, Aaron followed, reluctantly. He shook his head, insisting, “It’s not funny!” through his giggles.
> 
> \--
> 
> Nail polish!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my friend and proofreader Charlie lesbianlanaskye for the nail polish idea

They took a bus to the shopping centre, and Crowley put his feet up on the seat beside Aaron, so in retaliation Aaron rested his bag against Crowley’s knees. Crowley let him, and they called it a stalemate.  
  
“So,” Aaron twiddled his thumbs, “What’s the plan?”  
  
Crowley arched an eyebrow, “You talk like this is some kind of…” he glanced out the window, looking for the word, “mission.” He shook his head, shrugging, “We just go to the shop, get the stuff, uh, go back to the library to try it out?”  
  
Aaron nodded, furrowing his brow, “Shop, library…” He looked up at Crowley, “Are we allowed to use nail varnish in the library?”  
  
Crowley pulled a face, resting his head against the window, “I mean, who’s gonna stop us? Just don’t smudge it all over the chairs or anything and we’ll be fine.” He smirked at Aaron, “Unless, of course, you’ve reconsidered that Italian Job, and we run off to Majorca.”  
  
Aaron shoved him, “You’re not still harping on that, are you?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “I’m just saying, I still think we should go for somewhere Caribbean.” He folded his arms behind his head, “I could pull some strings with my good old buddy, Satan, get us a private island.”  
  
Aaron laughed, shaking his head and gazing out of the window, “You have such a nerve. Especially considering where teasing me has got you before.”  
  
“Yeah but,” Crowley nudged him with his foot, “This is, like, at the expense of us both. Besides,” He smiled, putting on a higher voice, “It’s all in jest!”  
  
Aaron just shook his head, eyes on the passing buildings. He couldn’t shake a small, bright smile.  


* * *

 

Aaron followed Crowley to a fairly large Boots in the middle of the big shiny shopping centre in the middle of town. Aaron had been there about twice in his memory, and was anything but fond of the place. It was loud, and bright in an unfriendly and painful way, and very busy. Crowds were the bane of his existence.  
  
Crowley loved them; he could slip between the masses, disappear, observe the world close-up. He had taken up pickpocketing once; he was very good at it. Of course, he didn’t need to; anything to be found on the person of the average shopper he could afford five times over - but, much like shoplifting, the thrill was invaluable.  
  
“So…” Crowley stopped down an aisle with shelves stacked with every conceivable colour or name of nail polish, “Pick one, I guess.”  
  
Aaron chewed his thumb, scrutinising a range of oranges. On one hand, transparent was an obvious choice, but on the other hand, he supposed it was like braces, or glasses; you could go for a cool colour, so why not? His glasses were beige, but that was besides the point.  
  
Perhaps beige? He stepped back, scanning for a beige. Well… there was brown. He started towards the shelves of browns near the end of the aisle, but his eye was caught by a range of sparkly blues.  
  
Crowley watched, laughing quietly to himself. Watching Aaron was to watch a child’s first awe-filled encounter with a pick-n-mix. He wandered from hue to hue, picking up a bottle here and there and holding it to the light. Ever hesitant, curious, shy. Cute, he thought.  
  
He grimaced, turning away. He sidled over to a range of black bottles that could only be differentiated under severe scrutiny by a wisened nail polish expert, and by excessively creative names. He picked out a bottle of Deadly Nightshade, tossed it into the air once, and smiled. Now for one of his favourite games of low-level discord.  
  
“Crowley, is it possible I could-” Aaron stopped, watching Crowley, “Uh. Are you allowed to do that?”  
  
Crowley glanced at him, continuing to paint the uppercase letters across the shelf, “Sure, sure. It’s what it’s here for, kinda. Testing out the stuff.”  
  
Aaron frowned, “You’re doing more than testing it out, though.”  
  
“Well,” Crowley shrugged, “Got to be sure.”  
  
Aaron squinted at the words Crowley was painting. G-O-D I-S D… “Hang on a tic, Crowley, what are you writing?”  
  
Crowley flashed him a grin, finishing off an E.  
  
Aaron tugged at his arm, “Now you stop that!”  
  
The A went a bit wiggly on one side, and Crowley shoved Aaron away, laughing, “Just calm down. It’s fine. I’ve done this a thousand times.”  
  
“A thousand-” Aaron went red with indignance, grabbing at the bottle, “Well, you stop right now!”  
  
“Hey, gerroff!” Crowley stopped halfway through painting the final letter, wrestling with Aaron for the bottle, “You’re gonna draw attention to us.”  
  
“Good!” Aaron grumbled, focused on trying to pry the bottle away from him, “You _should_ get in trouble for this!”  
  
“Um, one,” Crowley twisted his body, trying to cut between Aaron and the bottle, “I so don’t, because nobody cares, and it’s funny!”  
  
“And two?” Aaron reached around Crowley, keeping ahold of the bottle.  
  
“And two, you’ll go down too!” He gave the bottle a final tug, and they both toppled to the floor.  
  
Aaron had the foresight to let go of the bottle, which split all over Crowley’s chin and shirt. “Bleugh!” Crowley shoved Aaron off him, wiping away varnish with his hands, “Now look what you’ve done, you twit!” He stuck out his tongue, grimacing, “That is _nasty_.”  
  
Aaron sat on the floor beside him, stifling his laughter. He picked up the bottle, screwing the top back on. Then he produced a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to Crowley.  
  
Crowley sat up, staring at him. He took it, shaking his head, “I hate you.” He did his best to wipe the polish from his face; he didn’t even bother with the shirt, that was a lost cause.  
  
Aaron laughed, hugging his knees, “No you don’t.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Crowley wiped his hands, and tossed the handkerchief back, “Something like that, anyway.”  
  
Aaron held up the handkerchief like it was a severe biohazard, “Hm. Yes.” He folded it up, and put it in Crowley’s coat pocket, “Keep it.”  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, standing up and producing a pen from his other pocket. He quickly finished the D before Aaron could stop him.  
  
Aaron stood, folded his arms, and tried to look stern as he stood beside Crowley and read ‘GOD IS DEAD’ scrawled in black nail varnish, and a little sharpie, across the Maxfactor shelf. Crowley laughed first, Aaron followed, reluctantly. He shook his head, insisting, “It’s not funny!” through his giggles.  
  
Crowley watched him, and smiled. Something like hate, he thought. Something. Aaron looked at him and he raised his eyebrows, “So, what colour?”  
  
Aaron frowned, scratching his head, “How many perhaps would you be willing to get me?”  
  
Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes, “Pick your favourite three.”  
  
Aaron nodded, reaching for the blues, “Oh, and that black bottle, too. I don’t particularly fancy the colour, but given how much we spilled, it’s only fair.”  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, pocketing the bottle, “Whatever, I can always use a spare bottle of black, I guess.”  
  
Aaron came back a few moments later with a shimmery pastel blue, a light brown, and a transparent bottle of nail varnish. Crowley took the bottles from him, snaking his way to the checkout, “Transparent, that’s a good option. I’ll admit, glittery blue’s gonna be tough to pull off. Brown, you could do. Goes with your wardrobe.”  
  
He made the exchange quickly and wordlessly, and handed Aaron his little plastic bag as they walked to the bus stop, “Happy birthday.”  
  
Aaron took the bag, swinging it as he walked, “But my birthday’s not until…” he frowned, “Not until… Uh. Um… Oh.”  
  
Crowley watched him, looking him up and down, he asked, “What’s the date today?”  
  
Aaron thought for a second, then turned to him, “November 15th.”  
  
Crowley smiled, “Happy birthday, angel.”  


* * *

 

“So,” Crowley laid the three bottles before Aaron in a line, “Which one first?”

They had found a small desk in the library hidden by a tall shelf, having received ominous evils from the librarian. Aaron was thankful for the privacy, anyhow.

He rubbed his chin, screwing up his mouth as he stared at the choice before him. He picked up the transparent bottle.

Crowley raised his eyebrows, “Safe choice, I guess. A bit dull, but safe.”

Aaron looked him up and down, “Safe from what? What do you mean?”

“Well, for one, if you fuck it up, you can’t really tell, and for two,” he fiddled with the blue bottle, “Your brothers don’t sound very nice.”

Aaron huffed, turning over the bottle in his hand, “They’re not my brothers. But no, they’re not nice. Not to me, at least.”

“So, transparent it is?” Crowley leant on his hand, flicking the blue bottle, “But then, what was the point in making me buy the other two?”

Aaron looked guilty, and fiddled with his hair, “Well, I… I didn’t think of that, I suppose. I thought maybe they could be useful one day, you know.”

“If you ever get out,” Crowley suggested.

Aaron frowned. He put down the bottle, “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but-” Crowley raised his eyebrows, “Well, yes. It would be nice. To live by oneself, that is.”

There was a lull. Crowley’s mind drifted to the near-empty flat; spare bedrooms unused; abundant empty space; the overwhelming silence that smothered him like a gas. It could do with filling.

"You sure you don’t wanna be more outrageous?” Crowley asked, sitting up and tossing the blue bottle in the air. He caught it, smiling at Aaron, “Blue, goes quite well with beige.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to make a habit of rocking the boat, as it were, but…” but their opinion of me can hardly get worse, by this point, “Just once shouldn’t hurt.”

Crowley smiled, tossing the blue bottle to Aaron. He leant forward on the desk, spreading his hand against the wood. “So, the lid has a brush in it, which you use to paint the stuff on. You should put your hand like this, until you get to the thumb. Start with your left hand - you’re right handed, right?”

Aaron nodded, “Of course.” He copied Crowley, spreading his hand on the table and dabbing the little brush, frowning as the polish dripped over his finger. He persevered, managing to cover roughly three nails before Crowley pulled the brush from his hand.

“Ok, stop. This is painful to watch.” He put the lid back on the bottle, sighing.

Aaron scowled at him, “Well, it was your idea! You’re supposed to be the expert here, not me.”

“I know,” said Crowley, stirring the polish in the bottle, “That’s why I’m going to do it for you.”

Aaron lifted his head, surprised, “What?”  
  
Crowley leant across the table, holding out his hand, “C’mere.”  
  
“Uh…” Aaron held up his hand, eyeing the messy paint job, “I think, I…”  
  
Crowley sighed, clicking his fingers, “Hand. Here. Now.”  
  
Aaron put his hand in Crowley’s, smiling hesitantly. He glanced around; Crowley didn’t. He wiped away the overflowing polish with a finger, wiping it off on the side of the table. He held Aaron’s hand gently; soft, and very still. Aaron didn’t think to ask him why he wasn’t lying his hand out on the table.  
  
He watched Crowley paint his nails with something like awe. His hands were long, thin, and bony, but fit with Aaron’s perfectly and with such ease it was as if they had always done so. He cradled Aaron’s hand, leaning close enough that his breath could be felt against his skin; soft and cool and delicate. Everything, in that moment, was so delicate.  
  
Crowley was leant over his hand, head bowed, so that his hair began to fall into his eyes from where he had brushed it back, obstructing his view. He tilted his head, trying to deal with it without disturbing his focus. Aaron didn’t think. He didn’t think when he reached out with his free hand and ran his hand through Crowley’s hair as he’d watched him do time and time again. He ran his hand through his hair, back and out of his eyes; it was thick, so smooth. He never wanted to take his hand away.  
  
Crowley looked up.  
  
They both felt it. An abrupt jolt; an earthquake, condensed into a heartbeat; a momentary heart attack; the apocalypse, suspended in a second. Fingers began to close into eachother, and then pulled away, quick. They both took a moment to remember to breathe.  
  
“Well,” Crowley said, leaning back and shaking his hair back into place, “That’s one hand done, I guess. You’ll have to wait for it to dry, I’m afraid.”  
  
Aaron held out his hand, waving it about, “What about the other one?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, folding his arms, “Uh, see how you get along with just one for now. No point, if it doesn’t help with the nail biting.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” Aaron watched the light bounce off the glittering blue, wiggling his fingers, “There’s something about it.”  
  
Crowley watched him. He didn’t say anything. He folded his arms tighter around himself, trying to swallow away the tight knot in his throat.


	18. the Last Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why do you live in a care home?” Crowley asked, after a pause. It had been playing on his mind for a long time, but how would he ask that sort of thing?  
> Aaron paused, “Because I don’t have parents, obviously.”  
> “Yeah, but,” Crowley leant forward, subtly lowering his voice, “How come?”
> 
> \--
> 
> Aaron and Crowley struggle to preserve and extent the time they spend together, and talk about the more mysterious side of their situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: family talk
> 
> Publishing rate's caught up with writing rate, so youll have to wait til next week for another chapter im afraid

Friday. The last friday, before a week of examinations. The atmosphere was reminiscent of Good Friday in sombriety and focus - compared to the Black Friday of any other friday, that is.

     It was the perfect excuse for both Crowley and Aaron to forget themselves in something other than eachother - and then a perfect opportunity to forget their homes at the library, staying long into the night.

      The librarian watched them, like a territorial and particularly passive-aggressive hellhound. She had watched them closely for years; she could feel the trouble emanating from them - especially that Crowley; he had the Old Adam in him, if anyone did.

      She watched them closer than ever, now, broom close by as she noted with contempt the civil gap between them collapse in on itself day after day. There was little gap to speak of, as the pair leant over a textbook, tossing french words at eachother like a friendly, competitive game of chess.

       “‘My family has two sisters and three brothers,’” Crowley rolled his eyes, “You’ll have to try harder than that, angel. A first year would know that.”

     Aaron smiled at him, pride and affection spilling from every orifice. He began leafing through the pages, looking for something harder.

      Crowley watched him, resting his head on his hand, “How do you say adopted?”

     Aaron stopped, looking up, “Say what now?”

      “Adopted. In french. How do you say it?”

     Aaron shrugged, turning back to the book, scanning a text, “It’s not on the curriculum, don’t worry.”

      “What about orphan?”

Aaron shrugged again, not looking up.

    “Oh come on,” Crowley leant closer, “You must know  _ that _ .”

     Aaron sighed, asking coldly, “And why is that?”

      Crowley shrugged, “Les Mis, y’know? All about orphans and stuff. Dead famous musical.”

     Aaron put his head down on the desk, and his shoulders began to shake. Crowley sat up, “Aaron? Is it something I said?”

      Aaron looked up, laughing, “You think Les Miserables is about orphans?”

    Crowley shrugged, folding his arms on the desk, “Sure. Sad little girl on the poster - orphan.”

     Aaron shook his head, “It’s not about orphans. Besides, it’s not even in french.”

     “Then what’s it about?”

    Aaron leant on his arm, “I suppose I’ll just have to take you, some day, you can find out.”

     Crowley raised his eyebrows, “If I’m paying, then I’m pretty sure it’s me taking you.”

     Aaron frowned, “I could pay! Someday,” he returned to the textbook, muttering, “Hopefully.”

     “Why do you live in a care home?” Crowley asked, after a pause. It had been playing on his mind for a long time, but how would he ask that sort of thing?

Aaron paused, “Because I don’t have parents, obviously.”  
  
     “Yeah, but,” Crowley leant forward, subtly lowering his voice, “How come?”  
  
Aaron frowned at him, “Are you really asking that?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “We’re friends, aren’t we?” Aaron continued to frown at him, and he smiled weakly, “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”  
  
Aaron shook his head, rolling his eyes, “Let me guess, two parents who don’t pay much attention to their son, make up for it with lots of money - leaving him spoilt and rude, I suppose - and are always working? Maybe they’re divorced, perhaps not.” Bitterly, he added, “At least you know where they are.”  
  
Crowley pulled a face, “Almost accurate.”  
  
Aaron sighed, “Oh yeah, what did I get wrong?”  
  
Crowley leant back, spreading out his hands, “I have no idea where they are.” He shrugged, “And the other stuff, well that’s my theory.”  
  
Aaron lifted his head from the desk, peering at his friend, “What do you mean you don’t know where they are? Who looks after you?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “Nobody, really.” Aaron’s mouth fell open, and Crowley sat forward, “You can’t tell anyone, okay? Thanks, but I don’t fancy living with a bunch of Bible-bashing boys in a little monastery in Barking.”  
  
Aaron frowned, “I don’t think that’s where you’d go… But - you have money! Lots! How- Crowley, you don’t…”  
  
Crowley laughed, shaking his head, “No! It’s just… there. Never runs out. I don’t pay much attention to it, everything gets paid.”  
  
Aaron shook his head slowly, “That’s so strange.”  
  
“Right?” Crowley smiled.  
  
“And you have no idea where they are? Your parents?”  
  
Crowley shook his head, leaning closer, “I don’t remember them. Nothing. I’ve lived alone as long as I can remember - which is…" he frowned, "probably not as long as it should be.”  
  
“Have you looked for them?”  
  
“You mean have I looked up ‘Crowley’ in the directory?” Crowley nodded, “Yeah. And the history books, and the papers - everything. Nothing. There’s, y’know, Aleister Crowley, the evillest man to ever live-”  
  
“Well, some people would see the resemblance.”  
  
Crowley nudged him, laughing, “Adam, you mean. Besides that,” he sighed, thinking, “There’s all these AJ Crowleys about the place, for centuries, but no deaths, or births, marriages… Just, mentions here and there.”  
  
“I think I read about Leonardo Da Vinci knowing a Crowley.”  
  
Crowley nodded, “Yeah, and that’s not even the half of it.” He shrugged, “Maybe it’s just a coincidentally popular pseudonym.” He fiddled with the edge of the textbook, then looked up, “Okay, your turn.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I told you mine, now what’s your tragic and mysterious backstory, angel?”  
  
“Well…” Aaron leant back in his chair, taking off his glasses and cleaning them, “It’s not that tragic, I suppose. I’ve always lived there; don’t know what happened to the Ziraphales. Not the foggiest.”

“Haven’t you asked someone?”

Aaron raised his eyebrows, “You think they know? No, either they’re not telling me, or I’m just your average orphan case.” He sighed. “You know something strange, though?”  
“What?” Crowley pulled his chair closer - not much closer; they touched.

“I’ve done the same - looked them up. Ziraphale. It’s usually A Ziraphale, the people I find. No given name. Just A. And it’s the same; no real records of life, just mentions, business transactions sometimes. There’s an A Ziraphale who owned a book shop in Soho.”  
  
“Sounds like one of yours.”  
  
Aaron nodded, “It does. I’ve looked, though - it’s a coffee shop now. And whoever owns it is certainly no relative of mine.”  
  
“So we’re both…”  
  
“Alone,” Aaron finished. “Yeah.”

They looked at eachother, and an unspoken recognition was exchanged. Despite such grave and extreme differences, and a tendency to disagree on most fronts, they were alike, in an essential, important way. It was clear, now. Crowley put his hand on Aaron’s shoulder, “You’re not alone.” Aaron smiled. They were quiet.  
  
Crowley took his hand away, leaning on the desk, “You know, next week is mocks.”  
  
“I’m well aware.”  
  
“What’s the first exam?”  
  
“Science.”  
  
“There’s still a weekend before then.”  
  
Aaron shook his head, turning to the textbook, “If you haven’t prepared, Crowley, you’re leaving it dangerously-”  
  
“Do you want to revise together, this weekend? You know, cram in whatever we can, before it’s too late.”  
  
Aaron looked up. “You mean, go out? With you?”  
  
Crowley rubbed his eyes, laughing, “In a _sense_. We could, you know, get coffee or whatever, study… Go someplace, if you fancy. There’s always the cinema.”  
  
Aaron’s elated face became dimmed, “Ah yes, cinema. That reminds me. Saturday is house film night.”  
  
“Oh,” Crowley grimaced, “That sounds like hell.”  
  
Aaron shrugged, “After the hundredth time around, you can kind of just screen out the Sound of Music, focus on other things.”  
  
“Is there no way out?”  
  
Aaron tilted his head, running a hand through his hair, “Well…”


	19. Hastur and Ligur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron lifted his head, “What music?”  
> Crowley pulled a face at him, “Be-bop.”
> 
> \--
> 
> Crowley and Aziraphale run into some less than friendly, familiar faces, on their way to a coffee shop of Crowley's recommendation.

They met at noon, outside the library. Crowley had offered to pick Aaron up from his home, but had been met with vehement refusal. There was a storm brewing at Cherubs’ House, and to be seen getting into a taxi with him - it would do a little more than stir the air. He walked.  
  
Crowley waited for him, watching the road and tapping his foot along to the beat of his music. He made a mental note, he should get Aaron a mobile phone for Christmas, or whenever.  
  
Aaron sped up when he saw Crowley, waving to catch his eye. They met eachother halfway, Crowley pulled off his headphones, and Aaron smiled, red-cheeked (it was cold.)  
  
“It’s good to see you, Crowley!” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet, “Did you bring your science book?”  
  
Crowley nodded, and put his arm in front of Aaron as he started for the library, “Yeah, but, I have an idea.”  
  
Aaron stepped back, frowning at him, “Oh?”  
  
“Well,” Crowley stuffed his hands back into his pockets, looking around, “The library’s a bit… stuffy. There’s other places to study, you know?”  
  
“Like where?” Aaron stared at Crowley, trying to decipher his motives, predict his idea. The thought of studying at Crowley’s home unsettled him, somehow.  
  
Crowley shrugged, “I know a nice coffee shop. Better chairs, warmer,” he smirked, nodding to the library, “Non-demonic staff.”  
  
Aaron tutted, pulling his thin coat tighter around himself, “That’s mean.”  
  
“Sorry,” Crowley turned, walking towards the underpass, “Couldn’t help myself. You coming?”  
  
Aaron skipped to his side, walking beside him, “Coffee shops… aren’t they rather loud?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “Sometimes.”  
  
“With lots of people.”  
  
Crowley turned to him, “You’re with me, remember?”  
  
“Oh yes,” Aaron rolled his eyes, reading the graffiti as they passed through the underpass, “Mr. Invisible.”  
  
“I like that.” Crowley stepped in front of Aaron, turning around and walking backwards, “This place is nice, though. Fairly quiet, and besides, I have music.”  
  
Aaron lifted his head, “What music?”  
  
Crowley pulled a face at him, _“Be-bop.”_ _  
_  
Aaron pulled a face back, catching up with him as they climbed the stairs. As they came out onto the street, a gust of wind cut through them. Aaron hugged himself, grimacing. Crowley stopped, watching him, then started taking off his coat.  
  
Aaron watched him, “What are you doing? It’s flipping freezing!”  
  
Crowley nodded, “I know.” He held out the coat to Aaron. He took it, hesitantly, muttering a thanks and pulling it on.  
  
“Bleeding heck!” he exclaimed, holding up his arms, that were completely obscured in the thick fabric, “You flipping beanpole, it touches the floor!”  
  
Crowley snickered, “You look ridiculous!”  
  
Aaron scowled at him, hitting him with one sleeve, “You shut up! It’s not my fault someone __stretched you!”  
  
Crowley shoved Aaron by the head playfully, “Oh yeah? And who squashed you?” He shook his head, carrying on, “At least you’re not gonna freeze to death now. Just give it back when we get there.”  
  
Aaron huffed, pulling up the long coat and trailing after Crowley.  
  


* * *

 

The walk to the coffee shop was long, taking a path through the market that took place every saturday in the centre of town. Crowley dawdled, pointing out things that caught his eye, “Hey, hey, hang on.” He stopped at a stall selling music, waving Aaron back.  
  
Aaron huffed, dragging the coat along behind him, “What is it this time? The last time, it was a games console, before that a Scalextric set - maybe this time it will be something within your _age range_.”  
  
Crowley tutted, picking up a record and examining the label, “Both those things are well within my age range.” He turned, smiling at Aaron, “Look at this!”  
  
Aaron shrugged, “It’s a record.”  
  
Crowley nodded, raising his eyebrows, “An old, rare record,” he said, quietly, pointing at the price sticker.  
  
Aaron frowned, “How…” he stepped closer, “how old and rare, exactly?”  
  
Crowley smiled, handing Aaron the record, “You want it?”  
  
He looked down at the record; it was the Beatles, but with a rather funny logo - all yellow and capitalised. He looked up, “Are you quite sure this is what you think it is? It looks like a bootleg to me.”  
  
“And how much do you know about records?” Crowley folded his arms, jutting out his chin, “It’s the real deal, that. I swear on my mum.” Aaron frowned, and Crowley grinned, “Joke. But really,” he nodded, looking around, “You want it?”  
  
“Er,” Aaron looked back to the record, “I don’t have a record player, I’m afraid.”  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, “I didn’t expect you to _play_ it!” He leant closer, putting a hand on Aaron’s shoulder, “It’s worth a mint, angel. More than you’ve seen in your entire little life.”  
  
Aaron nodded slowly, realisation dawning on him like a leak dripping into his mind, “I could sell it?”  
  
Crowley grinned, nodding, “Now you’re getting it!”  
  
Aaron bobbed on his feet, looking around, “Where do I buy it?”  
  
Crowley looking about, then sauntered around to the other side of the stall, waving for Aaron to follow him. He took the record from Aaron, paying for it as quickly and nonchalantly as possible, while Aaron grinned like a fool beside him. “It’s his first record,” he muttered, shaking his head, when the stall owner threw him a questioning look.  
  
He handed the paper bag to Aaron, “Pay me back whenever.” Aaron tried, carefully, to fit the record into his bag, while Crowley looked around the sunlit square absentmindedly.  
  
“Oh. Shit.”  
  
Crowley grabbed Aaron by the hand, tugging him behind the stall, “Hide that thing, _quick_ ,” he ordered, peering around the corner. Aaron frowned, zipping up his bag and looking past Crowley.  
  
Among the bustle of the afternoon shoppers, two figures edged ominously from where they had been lurking. One was very tall, thin, and sharp - his hair held up in rock-hard spikes by a hillock of hair gel, and wearing a hoodie with one of those band logos that simply looked like an illegible mass of thorns. His counterpart, a short, squat, mangled looking type, with little hair to speak of, and a face that looked like a pig, if pigs had gurning competitions. They both sauntered vaguely in the direction of Crowley and Aaron.  
  
“Who are they?” Aaron asked, innocently.  
  
“Oh, you know, gang members,” said Crowley, ducking further behind the stall and cursing under his breath.  
  
Aaron chortled, “What, them? They look like a pair of exceptionally lazy goths. They’re probably even scared of soap and water.”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “They are that. But they’re also fucking evil.”  
  
“How do you know them?”  
  
Crowley glanced at him, “Them two, Hastur and Ligur they call themselves - they’re big in the _wrong crowd_ , at St. Beryl’s.”  
  
Aaron frowned, “Oh.”  
  
The two continued to skulk across the square, pausing only for a short spell of torment of a local, or to sneer at a crude joke. Crowley was quite pale, now.  
  
“I fucked off, after a bit. They’re all a bunch of tossers, really. Playing pretend, mostly; fake tattoos, initiation, Godawful names. But they got really nasty, when they wanted to.”  
  
“Oh, my- you played along with all that? Fake tattoos and everything?” Aaron began to laugh, but was silenced by a warning glare from Crowley.  
  
They turned back to looking at the square, where it was becoming increasingly obvious that the two were moving with purpose. “You remember that time a kid was tied to the sports hall rafters for two days?” Aaron nodded. “He was the last one that tried to leave, before me.”  
  
He pulled Aaron by the hand, and they started running. They ran between the stalls and buildings, glancing through the gaps as they went.  
  
“Well, well, well…” They skidded to a halt. Before them, stood snugly between the market and safety, loomed Hastur. Crowley whipped his hands into his pockets, straightening up. Aaron shuffled behind him. “Oi, Ligur,” Hastur called, summoning the smaller menace to his side, sneering, “Look who I ran into.”  
  
“Well, I’ll be fuckin’ damned.” Ligur squinted up at Crowley through beady eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists, “It’s the prodigal son!”  
  
Crowley grimaced, looking around, and trying but failing to keep up an air of nonchalance, “Alright, lads?”  
  
Hastur stepped forward, and Aaron wrinkled his nose; he smelt of energy drinks and cheap cigarettes. “The last time we saw you,” he said, “was a lager run.”  
  
Crowley raised his eyebrows, nodding, “Oh, that was it, was it? Man, that was so long ago. Time flies, huh?”  
  
“We was dead thirsty after that dunking match,” Ligur growled, stepping forward, “And you went an’ disappeared. You owe us.”  
  
Aaron frowned, “Dunking?” he whispered.  
  
Crowley leant back, not taking his eyes off Hastur and Ligur, and replied, “Dunking heads in toilets. It’s a- ask later.”  
  
“Oh, what’s this?” Hastur grinned, “You hanging around the monkey tree, now?” He sneered, “Should’a known.”  
  
Crowley took a step back. in front of Aaron, “Not particularly. Just…” he paused, trying to think of a lie.  
  
“And so what if he is?” Aaron shouted, coming out from behind Crowley, “He can ‘hang around’ whomever he likes! And he certainly doesn’t like you.”  
  
Hastur and Ligur stared at him, and burst into a fit of cruel, unfriendly cackling. Crowley sighed, covering his face with his hands. “Oi, Crawly,” Hastur sneered, stepping forward and thumping Crowley on the arm. He tensed. “We was gonna string you for what you did,” Hastur continued.  
  
“Leave you hanging for days!” Ligur added.  
  
“But I’ve got a better idea.” Hastur grabbed Crowley by the shoulder, tugging him over. Aaron watched as Crowley, Hastur, and Ligur formed a huddle, all whispering conspiratorially. He began to form an escape plan.  
  
Crowley straightened up, looking between the two, “Huh…” He nodded slowly, stepping out of the huddle, “You know, guys? That sounds fun and all, but the thing is, I’m kind of busy, and I’ve grown out of that stuff now.”  
  
“What d’you mean you’ve grown out of all that stuff?” Ligur said, trying to bring himself closer to Crowley’s height.  
  
“Well, I mean,” said Crowley, as he sauntered backwards towards Aaron, “That, y’know, you lot think you have friends, and power, and all that…” Aaron frowned, watching him cautiously - now was not the time for a speech about morals and friendship. “But no, _I’ve_ got friends. Big friends, with lots of money, who know their way around heavy machinery… and lead.”  
  
Hastur and Ligur scowled at Crowley, struggling to comprehend what they were hearing and call his bluff. “And, you know,” Crowley continued, “I haven’t really seen them in a while. But, well, if you fancy having a go at me, or Ziraphale, for that matter, then I could easily… ring them… run.” He grabbed Aaron, practically picking him up as he dashed around a corner, leaving Hastur and Ligur still processing.  
  
At some point while running, Crowley had found his hand once again in Aaron’s, and gripped it tight, tugging them round corners and into an alley. He pressed himself against the wall, and Aaron did the same. They listened.  
  
Hastur and Ligur could be heard, over the bustle of the street, shouting and swearing and cursing Crowley’s name. Eventually, being inept at hide and seek, they gave up, and wandered off in search of beer and entertainment.  
  
Crowley turned to Aaron, and smiled. Aaron smiled, too, “Why is it,” he asked, “that every time we’re running somewhere,” he held up their hands, “this happens.”  
  
Crowley shrugged, snaking his hand away, “Some kinda instinct?”  
  
Aaron frowned, nodding, “Hm. I haven’t heard of that one.”  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, sidling down the alley, “C’mon. Shortcut.”  
  
The alley opened up into a small courtyard, where a few young baristas leant against a fire escape, sipping coffee. One pushed herself off the railing, smiling, “Oi oi, Crowley boy, you alright?”  
  
“Ehh,” Crowley looked around, running a hand through his hair, “Just avoiding someone, you know…”  
  
The barista nodded, raising her eyebrows, “Them Hell’s Angels still after you?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “I think they were the Outkasts, last time I checked. With a k.” Aaron watched the interaction from the mouth of the alley, curious. There seemed to be an established relaxedness about Crowley’s relationship with this woman, who was fairly young - perhaps in her early twenties - and quite pretty, probably, under all that makeup. She somehow looked like someone that could have been, once, either a nun or a satanist. Aaron wasn’t sure he liked her.  
  
She laughed, shaking her head. She nodded to the door, “You and your buddy can pop in that way then. Ross’s on counter, anyway.”  
  
Crowley shook his head, sauntering towards the open shop door, “what a piss artist.” He turned back to Aaron, “you coming?”


	20. Diablo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley shrugged, fiddling with the edge of the plate, “You want it? I mean, if you don’t like angel cake, I can have it. I kind of like angel cake - it’s too sweet, I guess, and embarrassingly short, girly, I s’pose, and really not the kind of thing I ever thought I’d like, not in a million years, but - everyone’s full of surprises, I guess.”  
> Aaron furrowed his brow, perplexed. He watched Crowley, who didn’t look at him, spinning the plate around with a finger.
> 
> \--
> 
> Technically, Crowley and Aziraphale's first date?

The coffee shop was in a small street off from the high street, ‘Diablo,’ it was called - Aaron supposed that was only to be expected of Crowley. It was small, with soft lighting and softer seating, a quiet and quaint place where everyone seemed to know you. Despite the name, Aaron found himself falling in love with the place quite quickly.  
  
They found a booth in the corner far from the window, sharing the space only with a very tall person, completely obscured by a big newspaper. They sank into the deep leather seats, and Crowley checked on the record, “It’s fine.” He ran his hands through his hair, slouching, “Oh, that was fucking awful.”  
  
Aaron nodded, looking around himself and tapping the table with his fingers, “Who was that?”  
  
“Eh? Hastur and Ligur, I said.”  
  
Aaron shook his head, “No, no. The girl.” He looked at Crowley, who raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Mary?”  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “She’s a barista. She works here.”  
  
“Yes, but,” Aaron shifted in his seat, “I suppose it’s none of my business, but are you - Well, you’re on first name terms, so - What I’m trying to ask, is…” Aaron wiped his hands on his trousers.  
  
Crowley sat up, laughing, “Really? Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”  
  
“Um…” Aaron frowned.  
  
Crowley shook his head, shuffling down in the booth, “You’re ridiculous. Lemme guess, you’re either a chamomile tea, no additives, type, or an extra large hot chocolate with all the marshmallows, cream, and other cutesy addons you can fit kinda person. Yeah?” Crowley stood up, getting out his wallet.  
  
Aaron smiled, impressed, “The latter!”  
  
“Knew it.” Crowley left to order drinks, and Aaron watched him go, until he caught himself. He furrowed his brow, looking around, trying to recompose himself - what were they doing? Oh, yes. He started unloading his bag of books and pencil case, carefully navigating around the record. He laid the study supplies out on the table, then grew restless, rearranging them, trying to organise everything in the most convenient manner possible. He grew restless still, worrying about Crowley at the front of the shop, with windows, and Hastur and Ligur - and Mary. He got up, deciding it had been long enough and he should see if Crowley was okay.  
  
“Careful, you big clod!” Crowley hissed, struggling to keep the tray balanced after Aaron ran into him. He glared intently at the precarious mug of hot chocolate, scaring it into staying decidedly in the mug. He turned to Aaron, “Where do you think you’re going?”  
  
Aaron shrugged, “Oh, uh, I was just going to check you were okay. You were taking a while.”  
  
Crowley stared at him, then shook his head, “Whatever. The guy at the counter is a complete wankstain, is all. C’mon,” he nudged Aaron, returning to the booth. He shoved aside Aaron’s books to put down the tray, and set the mug of hot chocolate before Aaron, who shuffled into his side of the booth, frowning and stacking the books beside the wall. Crowley rolled his eyes, taking his coffee and putting a plate in front of Aaron, “I had some spare change, I thought it was funny.”  
  
Aaron stared at the plate, which held a small slab of angel cake. He chuckled, “Clever.”  
  
Crowley shrugged, fiddling with the edge of the plate, “You want it? I mean, if you don’t like angel cake, I can have it. I kind of like angel cake - it’s too sweet, I guess, and embarrassingly short, girly, I s’pose, and really not the kind of thing I ever thought I’d like, not in a million years, but - everyone’s full of surprises, I guess.”  
  
Aaron furrowed his brow, perplexed. He watched Crowley, who didn’t look at him, spinning the plate around with a finger. Aaron pushed the plate away, “Speaking of nicknames,” he crossed his arms on the table, smirking, “Crawly?”  
  
Crowley looked up, then picked a book at random, “Science.”  
  
Aaron took the book from him, putting it back, “No, really, what was that?”  
  
Crowley groaned, slouching back so far his knees brushed Aaron’s, “I was twelve, okay? Maybe thirteen…”  
  
Aaron nodded, smiling, “We’re all allowed an embarrassing past, I suppose - And yours sounds mortifying.”  
  
“Oh, it was!” He ran a hand through his hair, turning away, “They’re a bunch of idiots, the lot of ‘em. Fake satanic shit.”  
  
“Oh, my.”  
  
“Shut up. I was _twelve-_ ”  
  
“Yes, you’ve said.”  
  
“Twelve and stupid! And lonely,” he grimaced, picking at the label on his coffee.  
  
Aaron tilted his head, leaning forward on the table, “Were you less lonely, with them?” he asked.  
  
Crowley shrugged, “No.”  
  
Aaron put his chin in his hand, “And now?”  
  
Crowley looked at him, raised his eyebrows, and then turned his gaze to one of the abstract paintings that littered the walls, “I guess.”  
  
Aaron smiled. “So,” he said, softly, picking up a book, “Science?”

 

* * *

 

Aaron was still wearing the nail polish, Crowley noted; in pristine condition. People had mentioned it to Aaron, of course; he had been sent from the dinner table for very nearly swearing at John 4 (while Johns 1 through 3 guffawed in the background) and he could tell Brother Haniel was going to have a  _ word _ with the reverend - Another reason he hoped saturday would never end.

Aaron looked up, while studying, now and then, stealing long glances like they were apples from a tree, just close enough to jump at, and snatch the short and sweet thrill of forbidden fruits.

Gabriel had been proud of him; of the nail polish; of how fiercely he’d defended himself. His reasoning was that this, being Crowley’s idea, was an extension of him, and so to be defended at any cost. He didn’t bother giving any thought as to why Crowley knew what he knew, or why it triggered such a reaction from his housemates. He knew, really, but he was withholding it.

He knew, and it grew inside him, nameless and terrifying - unique and exciting. It covered him and his thoughts like graffiti. He tried to keep it down, hold it in, but knew that one day, it would all come out, and the longer he held it the bigger the eventual explosion.  
  
He closed the book. “So… That’s science entirely covered,” he said. They had moved, sat beside eachother to lean over the same book, sandwiched together, leant close. They looked at eachother. They didn’t speak.  
  
“You know,” Crowley said, after a long pause, “I didn’t really get chapter 7, can we...?”  
  
Aaron nodded, “Oh, yes, I got that, I can help you.” He opened the book, finding the page, while Crowley turned to him.  
  
“What happens when this is over?” he asked.  
  
Aaron looked up, “What?”  
  
“The mocks. When they’re over - what happens?”  
  
Aaron shrugged, “I don’t understand. We go to school, until the actual exams, of course.”  
  
“But,” Crowley leant forward, folding his arms on the table, “I don’t have to.”  
  
“You never had to.”  
  
Crowley looked at him from the corner of his eyes, “Right. But, I mean, I really won’t have to.”  
  
“Do you want to?” Aaron asked.  
  
Crowley looked at the book, picking at its plastic cover, “I dunno, really.” He looked up, “Do you want me to?”  
  
Aaron nodded. “Yes,” he said, incapable of avoiding sounding eager, “Very much so.”  
  
Crowley smiled, “You know I’d still see you, right? If I didn’t go.”  
  
Aaron shook his head, “Not nearly as much.”  
  
They looked at eachother. They said nothing.  
  
“I’d miss you,” Aaron said.  
  
Crowley nodded.  
  
He turned, picking up his empty coffee cup and peering inside. He shrugged, “You could always set up another bet/blackmail thing.”  
  
Aaron stayed where he was, staring up at Crowley. He sighed, quietly, and Crowley didn’t notice. “With what?”  
  
Crowley turned to him, raising an eyebrow, “I dunno,” he picked up the slice of angel cake, finishing it off. “You?” he suggested, with his mouth full.  
  
He stood, pulling on his coat. Aaron sat up, “What do you mean- Hang on, where are you going?”  
  
Crowley shrugged at him, “It’s six, angel.”  
  
Aaron frowned, “Is it?” He checked his watch, and his frown deepened, “Ah. I must have lost track of time.”  
  
“You and me both.”  
  
Aaron shifted in his seat, knitting his hands together, “We could always stay out later. What’s the harm?”  
  
Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes, “Diablo closed half an hour ago.”  
  
“Oh.” Aaron straightened his back, surprised, “Then how are we still here?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “Mary owes me.”  
  
Aaron paused. He started putting away his books, “Oh, right. Of course.”  
  
Crowley sighed, helping Aaron. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mind the record! I’m not the one on first name terms with random barista girls,” Aaron muttered, sourly. He tugged the bag away from Crowley, and looked up, scowling.  They were nose to nose.

Crowley had pictured this moment, oh he had, so many times. The sudden moment of realisation; a slip - getting too close, just for a moment. A moment would be enough.

A moment was not enough. They stared at eachother, saying nothing. Come on, Crowley told himself, just one inch closer, you just need to move one God forsaken inch closer. Just do something, anything, come on. Come on.

He stood up.

“I don’t like Mary, or whatever it is you’re so bothered about,” Crowley snapped, picking up his bag and throwing it over his shoulder, “Okay?”  
  
Aaron swallowed. He stared, dazed, into the spot where Crowley had been. He nodded.  
  
“Do you?” Crowley asked.  
  
Aaron shook his head, quickly, looking up at Crowley, “No!”  
  
Crowley snickered.

Aaron stood, pulling his bag over his shoulders and gathering the plate and cups, “Well,” he said, nodding to Crowley, “this was nice.”  
  
“It was,” Crowley said, starting for the front of the cafe.  
  
Aaron followed, “and - well, I’d very much like to do it again.”  
  
“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But, of course, not tomorrow, because tomorrow is sunday. You know how it is.”

“Yeah.”

Aaron put the tray down on the counter, and Mary appeared from the back room. She smiled, looking between the pair of them as if there was something she knew that they didn’t - something incredibly funny. “So,” she started, looking at Crowley, “how-”  
  
Crowley pushed past her and out the back door, “you shut your face.”  
  
Aaron stood, for a moment, perplexed. Mary sighed, nodding to him, “well, off you go, then,” she snapped. He darted after Crowley, muttering an apology.


	21. as Long as they Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh.” Aaron smiled, “A Levels, of course!”  
> “Of course… Then what, C Levels? U Levels?”  
> Aaron laughed, shaking his head, “then… university,” he said the word like one would speak of heaven, after fighting their way through purgatory; his eyes lit up, glittering with excitement.

He found Crowley leant against the fire escape where the baristas had been when they arrived, smoking. He ran up to him, demanding, “what are you doing?”  
  
Crowley looked at him as if he’d just spoken gibberish, “uh… smoking?”  
  
Aaron shook his head, “but you’re sixteen!”  
  
Crowley shrugged.  
  
“They’re so bad for you!” Aaron persisted, “you’re killing yourself.”  
  
Crowley smirked, bobbing his head about mockingly, “well if I’m severely depressed…” He took a long drag.  
  
Aaron huffed, hitting Crowley’s smoking arm, “it’s not funny! I knew you were stupid, but not this stupid!”  
  
Crowley frowned at him, “what do you care? It’s just one cigarette. I’m stressed. Exams, stressful.”  
  
“I thought you didn’t care about the outcome,” Aaron covered his mouth, trying not to breathe in the smoke, “you certainly give that impression.”  
  
“Do I?” Crowley shrugged, tossing the cigarette away. They both watched the small speck of smouldering, smoking embers in the gloom of the twilight.

“You don’t seem to care about anything much,” Aaron muttered.  
  
“I care about you,” said Crowley.  
  
They looked at eachother. “I know,” Aaron said. He crushed the cigarette under his foot. He turned, and started walking down the alley that lead to the street.  
  
Crowley watched him, “We don’t have to go home just yet, you know.”

Aaron turned, raising his eyebrows, “You don’t, maybe. I have rules to follow.”

“Well,” Crowley jogged up to meet Aaron, “Can I walk you to the bus stop, then?”  
  
“No taxi?”  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes, shoving Aaron through the alley, “I already paid for drinks. Don’t push it.”

 

* * *

 

They walked, slowly, through the emptying cobbled streets, to where the bus stop stood like an illuminated oasis in the waning dusk.

“What do you want to do after?” Crowley asked.

Aaron frowned at him, “What? After when?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “O Levels?”

“Oh.” Aaron smiled, “A Levels, of course!”  
  
“Of course… Then what, C Levels? U Levels?”  
  
Aaron laughed, shaking his head, “then… university,” he said the word like one would speak of heaven, after fighting their way through purgatory; his eyes lit up, glittering with excitement.

Crowley stumbled. “what? Like - with dorms, and that? That kind of uni? Where you go really far away?”

Aaron nodded, “oh, as far away as possible!” He beamed at Crowley, “I was thinking Edinborough. Perhaps Manchester…”

“ _ Scotland? _ ” Crowley exclaimed, “but that’s  _ miles  _ away!”

“I know!” Aaron nodded, “that’s the entire point!”

“What would you even study?”

“Oh, literature, of course! That would be simply spectacular. I suppose, besides that, something to do with musical theatre would be fun… There’s always theology as a fallback, I guess.” He sighed, happily, waving his arms about at his side. “What about you?”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t really have any reason to do anything,” he said. “You know, weird money situation.”

Aaron looked at him, “you could go looking for them.”

Crowley shook his head, leaning against the bus shelter as they reached it, “nah. It’s like you said, I’m alone.”

Aaron watched him. He held out his hand. Crowley looked down at it, and Aaron said, quietly, “you’re not.”

He took his hand, and they sat side by side, in the dingy bus shelter light, for as long as they had.


	22. Satanic Delinquent Boyfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was one of the things that he both loved and feared most about Crowley - he was constantly questioning every norm and dogma of Aaron’s religion, of religion in general, and of morality itself. Mostly, when Crowley went off on a tangent, picking so many holes in a practice that its only remaining use would be as a metaphorical colander, Aaron would often just shut off, and try to press forward with what he had been raised on. Either way, there was one moral conundrum both had avoided carefully.
> 
> \--
> 
> Exam week begins, and there are extra stresses besides revision and mark schemes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for readers unfamiliar w th british gcse system: lets say mocks are like midterms, basically. but you only get them in final year (ages 15-16) and theyre important for th college applications and that
> 
> dont get used to two chapters a week again but ive picked up th pace a lil and i felt so bad bc that last chapter was late and so short, so heres another.

For the first time in his memory, the cold and matter-of-fact stillness of isolation let Crowley be. For the first time, he wasn’t alone. For the first time, he knew how the Garden of Eden felt; hidden away in a pocket of sanctuary; safe from the chaos of a world in flux; the beginning of something beautiful. Perhaps, soon, he could even begin to name it.

But behind the bliss and metaphorical birdsong he was still uneasy. How long could this last, really? Either he leaves after these exams, and they never see eachother again. Or they grow apart slowly, until each other's names leave a bitter taste like a memory half forgotten. 

There was a third, more explosive ending, which Crowley tried to avoid thinking about. It was hard; every second he was betting with himself - if I pass french, I’ll do it. No, too risky. If I  _ fail  _ french, I’ll do it. If it rains that day, then I’ll ask him. If he says yes, then… then I tell him.

“Oh, by the way,” Aaron turned to Crowley, tapping his arm, “our bet!”  
  
It was registration period; they had an hour until their first exam. Crowley was reluctant to bother revising any further, and had confiscated Aaron’s flashcards when he had begun chasing him around and quizzing him. He sat down on a desk at the back of the classroom, looking at Aaron. “What?”  
  
Aaron leant against the desk beside him, “Have you decided on any stakes?”  
  
“As a matter of fact,” Crowley smiled like a snake, “I have.” He leant a hand on the desk, leaning closer to Aaron, who shrank into himself a little. He watched Crowley closely, his heart sped up. “So, here’s my idea,” Crowley continued, rolling his head onto his shoulder, “if, theoretically, I do somehow fail these exams, I stay in school ‘til the bitter end. With you.”  
  
Aaron blinked. He tried not to smile, and failed, “well, I’ll have to stop helping you so much, then, if that’s the case.”  
  
Crowley lifted his head, frowning, “why’s that?”  
  
Aaron smiled wider, folding his arms and bouncing happily, “I do want you to stay, you know.”

Crowley sighed, shaking his head, “just look how you’ve fallen, angel. Revelling in the suffering of an innocent.” Aaron guffawed. “Call yourself a pillar of morality, eh?” Crowley teased.  
  
Aaron shook his head, “I’ve never called myself that, no.” He shuffled a little closer to Crowley, tilting his head, “So, what about if you do pass?”  
  
Crowley smirked, “You mean _when_.” He looked around the room, absently taking in the idle graffiti that plastered the porta-cabin walls. “When I pass these exams with distinction and flying colours, then,” he looked at Aaron, “you try life my way.”

Aaron looked at him, tilting his head, frowning, “what does that mean?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “what do you think it means?”  
  
Aaron bit his lip, thinking. From what he understood, Crowley’s way of life consisted of trips to the city centre, car shows, and lots and lots of sleeping. He smiled to himself, slightly - that would be alright; they’d be together. It would be fun. Except - he gasped. Crowley smiled.  
Aaron scowled at him, “I am not _bunking!”_ __  
  
Crowley laughed, “it’s a bet, angel! You’re s’posed to forfeit something when you lose.”

Aaron folded his arms, glaring knives at Crowley, “It’s not happening.”  
  
Crowley sighed, running a hand through his hair, “are you gonna make a scene?”

“There’s nothing you can do to make me bunk. If and when you pass these exams, you’ll get the book back, and that’s enough,” Aaron jutted out his chin stubbornly.  
“I don’t care about the bloody book!” Crowley groaned. “Look,” he turned to Aaron, folding one leg under the other, “there’s a break coming up, isn’t there? It’s nearly December; there has to be.”

“So what?”

“Well…” Crowley shrugged, dropping his hands in his lap, “no school to bunk.”

Aaron stared at him, “I don’t- I don’t follow.”

Crowley sighed, shaking his head, “if there’s no school to bunk, you could just… fulfill your end of the bet then and then there’s no bunking done.”

Aaron frowned, “So essentially, if I lose the bet, all I have to do is spend time with you?”

Crowley pulled a face at him, “it’s just because you’re being such a stubborn little prat.”

Aaron laughed, shaking his head, “it’s still a loss for me though,” he said, shuffling closer still, “I have to put myself through you nerding out at some car show.”  
  
Crowley shrugged, leaning forward. “You never know, I could still be a - what was it - satanic delinquent?”  
  
Aaron raised his eyebrows, “Satanic delinquent boyfriend?”

“Mhmm.”

“Going to make me help you rob the Bank of England?”

“Maybe.”

“Run off to the Bahamas?”

Crowley smiled, “only if you come with me.”

They stared eachother down, close enough that Crowley could feel the heat radiating from Aaron’s face. Aaron bit his lip, quietly saying, “maybe we-”

He was cut off, distracted by childish retching noises.

They both turned to see, unsurprisingly, a child making retching noises. Crowley grimaced, pulling himself away from Aaron and turning on the first-year, “Are you choking?”  
  
The first year pulled a face at him, “Uh, no, obviously not.”  
  
Crowley leant forward on his knees, feigning concern, “Are you sure? You sound sick. Do you want me to get the nurse?”  
  
“Uh, I was joking?” She laughed uneasily, pulling at her blazer sleeves. “What are you, stupid?” she goaded, hesitantly.

Crowley tilted his head, raising his eyebrows, “I don’t get it.” He stared her down, willing her to come clean with her immature motivations. Crowley’s stare, with any eyes, was more than disquieting.

The child frowned, wandering away and grumbling, “it was just a bloody joke. Weird fairey pricks…”

Crowley sat up, watching her kick a chair and laughing. “Can you believe that? Barely out of nappies, trying some shit like that.” He looked at Aaron, who had remained quiet for the entire exchange, watching. He was smiling. “What?” Crowley asked, “what?”.

Aaron shook his head, “It’s nothing. It’s just,” Aaron sighed happily, “Just a week ago, you probably would have hit her.”

Crowley squared his shoulders defensively, “You honestly think I’d ever have slapped an eleven year old girl?”

Aaron looked at him. “Yes.”

Crowley let his shoulders drop, thinking. He shrugged, nodding. Then he grimaced, “Eugh, you’re rubbing off on me.” He made a mime of wiping something disgusting off of his hands, and started wiping the imaginary mess onto Aaron’s arm.

He laughed, shoving Crowley, “Get out of it!”

They spent the next hour casually enjoying eachother’s company while their classmates around them frantically crammed whatever science knowledge they could find. The exam was a good cover for the heavy knots of anxiety writhing at the pit of Aaron’s stomach. Sunday had been awful. 

He had almost pushed it from his memory, until Crowley offhandedly asked him, as a joke, if he had prayed about the exam. After that, Aaron became distant, trying not to return Crowley’s comfortable smiles or engage in any banter that could be seen as indecent.

The vicar had taken him aside, after the service. He had stuffed his hand into his pocket, and stared decidedly past him the entire time. He asked Aaron about the things Brother Haniel had told him - and, when that prompted no response, had simply graced Aaron with another sermon designed to put the fear of God into these poor, wayward youths. It certainly put fear into Aaron.

He didn’t like to question things much, religion wise - it was clear to him that it was far safer to nod silently and follow the rules, and then maybe he wouldn’t go to hell. When things didn’t sit right - they often didn’t - he just nodded harder. 

That was one of the things that he both loved and feared most about Crowley - he was constantly questioning every norm and dogma of Aaron’s religion, of religion in general, and of morality itself. Mostly, when Crowley went off on a tangent, picking so many holes in a practice that its only remaining use would be as a metaphorical colander, Aaron would often just shut off, and try to press forward with what he had been raised on. Either way, there was one moral conundrum both had avoided carefully.

When queuing outside the sports hall - which had been filled with rows of single desks for the exams - Crowley let Aaron have his flashcards, for some last minute quizzing. Aaron watched Crowley bounced on the balls of his feet as he tried to remember an answer; the way he bit his lip and held up his arms in the air when something was on the tip of his tongue; the self-satisfied grin he had from getting it right. He watched Crowley, and he couldn’t stop questioning something deep inside himself. A truth he had been withholding for a long, long time.


	23. There's Your Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley sighed, “will it shut you up?” Aaron nodded. “Okay, for the sake of your - what was it? - extremely low self esteem, I’ll tell you. But don’t get used to it.” He leant back, not looking at Aaron. “You’ve got a really nice smile. And nice hair. And nice eyes. There.”  
> “Wow, you really don’t wax poetically,” Aaron said.
> 
> \--
> 
> The aftermath of their first exam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joke is I actually wrote a poem inspired by this chapter: https://youtu.be/eEfVbUOJras

“So,” Aaron reunited with Crowley at the front gate, “Thoughts?”

Crowley smiled, stretching his neck, which had just spent the last hour bent over a desk, and felt like it. “Piece of cake!” he said, “A doddle.” He looked around, winked at Aaron, then joined the stream of students leaving early after the exam. “I’m gonna win this, angel,” he called back.

Aaron laughed, tagging after him, “Don’t be so sure. We still have a week of exams to go.” Crowley leant against the bus shelter, and Aaron folded his arms, taking up a smug look, “French included.”

Crowley shrugged, “I’m beating you in french.”

“Ah ah ah!” Aaron wagged his finger, “that was one time! A fluke!”

Crowley snickered, turning away with a self-satisfied smirk plastered all over his face. Aaron watched him, indignant.

“I’ve been talking to Ms. Daniels, you know, and she says-”

“Please, no,” Crowley pulled his hands down his face, groaning.

_ “She says _ that back before you joined a gang and got fake felt pen tattoos, back then you were very good at english. So that’ll be fine.”

Crowley looked through a gap he made in his fingers, “that’s all she said?” Aaron tapped his nose obnoxiously and Crowley groaned again, tilting his head back against the grimy glass.

Aaron picked at his nail - the polish was beginning to peel; it was irritating. “You know,” he said, “Sometimes I think - if it weren’t for all the, you know, satanism and bank robbery - you’d be the better angel.”

Crowley lowered his hands, looking at him quizzically, “Eh?”

“Well, what I mean is,” Aaron spread his hands, measuring his words, “were you…  _ considerably _ more pious, then you’d fare quite well among the choir boys.” He held his own hand, smiling at Crowley, who had never been so insulted in his life.

“What do you mean I’d fare well amongst a bunch of pansy nancies?”

Aaron shrugged, followed by Crowley’s glare as he came to lean beside him. “Well, you’re smart, aren’t you? And charismatic, and talented, weird, mean to me - and very pretty, which always helps.”

Crowley’s entire consciousness jolted. He stared at Aaron, spluttering a laugh, “you think I’m pretty?”

Aaron nodded, looking up at him innocently, “yes, of course. You’ve got those cheekbones, and that hair, you’re tall. You’re pretty.”

Crowley pushed off from the shelter, laughing uncomfortably as he jumped onto the arriving bus, “who the hell notices someone’s cheekbones?”

Aaron followed him, unphased. They stood together in the standing space, and Aaron looked out the window. “You’re supposed to return the compliment, traditionally.”

Crowley shook his head dramatically, “Oh no, I can’t do that. You’re hideous. Lying’s bad, right?” mAaron turned to him, scowling and hurt, and he laughed, “sarcasm!” His laughter petered out, and he looked around. “I’m not gonna go off on some kind of analysis of how you look like an angel, okay? That’s embarrassing.”

Aaron lifted his head, “but I do? Or is this more sarcasm?”

Crowley spluttered an embarrassed laugh, shaking his head, “Totally serious.”

Aaron grinned out the window. Then he frowned, “Crowley…?”

“Hm?”

“This is the wrong bus.”

“Bugger.”

 

* * *

 

Eventually, after some fuss, they reached the library. Crowley stopped just outside. “Hey, actually,” he glanced back to the road, “It’s kinda lunchtime. I got money, do you wanna…?”

Aaron paused. He thought back to Diablo, and his gut twisted. He continued into the library, “it’s fine, maybe later. We have a good deal of revision time and we should use it.”

Crowley, somewhat dejected, slouched at their usual table. “What’s our next exam?” he asked with a sigh.

“Maths,” Aaron said, patting the textbook he had hauled from his bag, “we should practice the trigonometry stuff. I asked sir, and he said it comes up fairly predominantly.”

Crowley smirked, “that’s cheating.”

Aaron looked at him, spluttering, “how- No it’s not!” Crowley raised his eyebrows, and Aaron his voice, “it’s not! He told me, so clearly it’s not.”

Crowley glanced towards the front desk, where the librarian was glaring daggers at them. Aaron promptly hushed up, leaning closer and hissing, “would sir cheat?”

Crowley rolled his head onto his shoulder to look at him. “Yes,” he said cooly.

Aaron sighed, sitting up and drawing his chair closer. He opened the book. “A little cheating never hurt anyone,” he muttered.

They revised together quietly, sometimes stopping to explain something to the other, or more commonly squabble over an answer, or the fact that since Crowley, Aaron’s scrupulously organised pencil case had devolved into a chaotic mess. Mostly, though, they quietly appreciated each other’s presence.

After a while, they moved to sit together outside on the low wall surrounding the library. Aaron threw away Brother Haniel’s lumpy sandwiches and happily accepted a helping of Crowley’s assortment of wicked packed treats.

“So immoral,” Crowley said, through a mouthful of oreo, shaking his head.

“Pardon?” Aaron asked, folding a crisp packet and looking around for somewhere to wipe his hands.

Crowley, now no longer compromised by food, turned to Aaron. “I was teasing. You throw away that lovely sandwich your dedicated, uh… guardian made for you, then take all my hobnobs.”

Aaron wrinkled his nose, “I don’t like hobnobs. And that sandwich was beetroot -  _ beetroot!  _ Who on earth eats beetroot sandwiches?”

Crowley smiled. “Heaven has no taste,” he said.

“I-” Aaron stopped. He was overwhelmed with the strangest feeling, as if he was forgetting something, something mortally important. Or, perhaps, ethereally. “What did you say?”

Crowley shrugged, “it’s a quote from somewhere, I think. I just remembered it - it felt like something you’d know.”

“No, see,” Aaron held up his hand, brow knitted, “I  _ do _ know it. I can’t for the life of me think where but I do.”

They fell into silence as they both thought until their heads ached. Crowley looked around; the sun was setting, despite the youth of the day, and everything was rather rosy. He remembered the last time they had sat on this wall; how Aaron’s hair caught lamppost light like a halo, a glittering ring framing his soft features. He wondered what a sunset would do.

“Hey,” Aaron, who had given up with thought, nudged Crowley from his daze. He beamed at him, “there’s nobody for you to be embarrassed around now, so you can wax poetically about how I look like an angel. I won’t tell anyone.”

Crowley looked at him sideways, raising his eyebrows, “there’s you.”

“Oh,” Aaron waved dismissively, “you won’t embarrass me, don’t worry.” He sat forward, “go on.”

Crowley forced a laugh, but it came out meaner than he intended, “I didn’t actually mean it.”

Aaron frowned, “you said you were serious.”

Crowley frowned right back at him, “I don’t _ wax poetically _ .”

Aaron shrugged, “then explain simply. I don’t mind. I was hardly poetic.”

Crowley sighed, “will it shut you up?” Aaron nodded. “Okay, for the sake of your - what was it? -  _ extremely low self esteem, _ I’ll tell you. But don’t get used to it.” He leant back, not looking at Aaron. “You’ve got a really nice smile. And nice hair. And nice eyes. There.”

“Wow, you really don’t wax poetically,” Aaron said.

Crowley looked at him. “I mean, you smile and then you  _ smile _ \- it’s like… like a sunrise, right there in your stupid mug. And I can’t look away. But sunsets hurt my eyes, so don’t go acting like it’s all good.”

Aaron, as if on cue, beamed. He leaned closer.

Crowley’s heart was drumming out a steady and heavy beat now. He, despite himself, continued: “And then- and then there’s your voice. I hate your voice!” He laughed, “it’s so high and weird. And soft. And your inflection sometimes,” he shook his head, “I mean, you sound like a treeful of monkeys on laughing gas. Really. But then - in french? Whole ‘nother story. Wow.”

Aaron inhaled deeply; his chest swelling with a rich, fluttery feeling that was almost painful. He opened his mouth, but Crowley pushed on. He wasn’t looking at him anymore, holding up his arms to emphasise his point. “And your hair! All those little perfect goodie-two-shoes curls. They make you like a foot taller, which is hilarious. But…” his eyes wandered to the alley beside the library. “Sometimes,” he said, “light gets caught in all the frizzy bits and it looks like a halo.”

He looked at Aaron. After a moment, he had to look away like he’d have to look away from the sun. Aaron beamed, and beamed, and beamed.

Eventually, Crowley slid off the wall, stuffing some packets in the bin. “There’s your poetry.”


	24. A Matter of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You proud of me?” Crowley smiled at Aaron, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Two exams down, not a hitch.” Aaron smiled back and nodded. Crowley frowned, “you okay? Normally you’d be all,” he held up his arms and raised his shoulders, imitating Aaron’s sunshine smile and perhaps pulling off a comical moonbeam. “That’s wonderful!” he said, in a silly, Aaronesque voice.

Everything after that point was dazed; rose tinted. Aaron was lost in a dream, and the only other inhabitant was Crowley - or, that’s how it felt. He replayed those words in his head until the mental tape deteriorated and the details warped. He wrote it down, to the best of his memory, and then threw the paper away because that was ridiculous. An hour later, he took the paper from his basket, smoothed it out, and placed it carefully between the pages of one of his favourite books. It was terrific.

It was terrifying. Before now, any thoughts he had were only in the theoretical; surely, Crowley could never feel similarly. Crowley was… cool. He was stoic and rude and quite horrible, really, when he wanted to be. Now, there was no excuse for Aaron to preserve his barrier of denial; his mind reeled into could-have-beens and should-have-beens and all the possible, incredible, terrible scenarios that could take place. Now, it was real.

He could turn, on a coin, at any moment; descend into a pit of anxiety and self-condemnation. When theoretical, he felt safe to contemplate the nuanced moral issue facing him - now, it was only a matter of time until something happened. A decision would have to be made; a question answered. Who exactly did he want to be?

These were the thoughts that plagued him throughout the two hour maths exam, and he was sure he fluffed it up. Maths was incredibly easy; he could get through advanced quantum mechanics without breaking a sweat, if he had some time and perhaps a nice cup of cocoa to ignore. Under the beady eye of the examiner, however, all his energy was required not to forget his two times tables.

A great deal of his energy was spent just  _ focusing _ on his two times tables. He could kiss trigonometry goodbye, so distracted was he with thoughts of… Well, anyway. He tried his best. He tried to be proud of himself.

“You proud of me?” Crowley smiled at Aaron, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Two exams down, not a hitch.” Aaron smiled back and nodded. Crowley frowned, “you okay? Normally you’d be all,” he held up his arms and raised his shoulders, imitating Aaron’s sunshine smile and perhaps pulling off a comical moonbeam. “That’s wonderful!” he said, in a silly, Aaronesque voice.

Aaron laughed, tugging Crowley’s arms down and holding them there. “I’m fine,” he swung Crowley’s arms about absently, “just a little worried, that’s all.”

Crowley scoffed, taking an arm away to put his hand on his shoulder, “you taught me almost everything I know!”

Aaron raised his eyebrows, “almost?”

Crowley shrugged, “I knew my times tables, didn’t I?”

Aaron laughed, shoving him away. “Mostly, I suppose.” He sighed, “I don’t test well.”

Crowley shook his head, starting out the front gate, “nobody can test  _ that _ badly.”

Aaron grimaced, then followed after him, not bothering to press his point. He could hardly say,  _ ‘I was distracted obsessing over the nuanced and delicate moral situation we find ourselves in together, and over your hair.’ _ That was improper; awkward.

This exam had been timed so that the day ended at the usual time, which left less time to revise together. Tomorrow, early, was RS; Aaron tried to press Crowley to revise, but ultimately their pursuits could best be described as ‘dicking about.’

“I just don’t get it!” Crowley spread his arms across the table, expertly avoiding a practice question, “Why -  _ why _ \- when people say ‘Dear God,’ does He not just go,” Crowley cupped his hands around his mouth, lowering his voice comically to sound to sound something like a divine darth vader, _ “Yes?” _

Aaron laughed, shaking his head, “you’re ridiculous.”

“But why? Really.” Crowley pressed his hands to the table and looked seriously at Aaron.

Aaron sat up, knitting his fingers together, “hm.” He tilted his head at Crowley, asking, “why do you think?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, “don’t you try and manipulate me into revision.”

Aaron sighed, rolling his eyes. He leant back, “no, really, why do you think?”

Crowley shrugged.

“Do you think He exists?” Aaron pressed.

Resting his chin in his hand, Crowley said, “I mean, I think He  _ exists _ , sure. I’m pretty certain about  _ that _ . Not sure whose side he’s on though.”

“What does that mean?” asked Aaron.   
Crowley turned his body to face the table, leaning on it. He shrugged again. “Just - I don’t know. I don’t feel  _ welcome  _ with all that stuff. The God stuff.”

Aaron leant forward, closer to him, “why? Is it because…” Crowley looked at him, and he looked down.

“I dunno,” Crowley continued, “it’s just not my scene. Which is fine. Don’t you go trying to convert me to the side of the angels now, angel.”  
Aaron smiled, shaking his head. “Of course not.” He put his hand on Crowley’s arm. He was going to say something like, ‘God doesn’t take sides’ or ‘God is all loving,’ but he knew Crowley too well - certainly better than he knew God. “We can be on our own side.”

Crowley looked at him sideways, laughing. He pulled his arm away, “that’s sappy.” He fell backwards into his seat, folding his arms. He raised his eyebrows at Aaron, “anyway, why do  _ you  _ think God’s prayer system is boring?”

Aaron paused, confused, and then shrugged, “it’s more of a suggestion box than a helpline.”

“What?”

Aaron sighed, holding out his hand as he explained, “see, when you put a note in the suggestion box, you don’t expect an instant response, but instead action, at some point. Which is what happens in prayer-”

“Theoretically.”

“Sure.”

“They why doesn’t he set up a help line as well?” asked Crowley, “it’s 1998, not the fourteenth century.” Aaron frowned at him. He grinned.

The day continued like this; talking about just about anything to keep from revision. Crowley began yawning, after a while, but every time Aaron asked if he wanted to go home he insisted on staying. After a heated but comical debate over the subtext of Lord of the Flies, which Crowley had almost finished reading, they fell into a natural silence. Crowley yawned again, and rested his head on Aaron’s shoulder. Aaron sat quite still, tapping a finger against his knee. He smiled.

Then, he frowned, considering something. “You know - it’s weird that I don’t use your name.”

“What? Since when was Crowley not my name?”

“No, I mean Anthony. I never call you Anthony. Maybe I should.” Aaron turned to Crowley as he lifted his head from his shoulder, looking at him. “I mean, we’re friends after all. You call me Aaron.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, “I’m pretty sure I don’t. Not often, anyway.”

Aaron hummed, “I suppose you’re right. But it’s still odd. I can’t think of a nickname for you either.”

Crowley laughed, “oh, God, are we going to both have nicknames for eachother now? You might as well call me honey.”

Aaron smiled, shoving him half-heartedly. “I’m serious,” he said.

Crowley nodded, “I know. I guess it’s kinda weird. But, what? Are you waiting for my  _ permission  _ to call me Anthony? I never stopped you.”

Aaron nodded, “I know, you’re right - but you’ve always been just Crowley in my head. I don’t see that changing. It suits you. Anthony is, well…”

“Too… human?” Crowley suggested, jokingly.

“Er,” Aaron frowned, “it’s just not very you.” He looked at Crowley, “would you mind if I continued to call you Crowley? It wouldn’t be too formal, would it?”

Crowley shrugged, “nobody’s ever called me Anthony anyway.”

Aaron nodded.

“So anyway…” Crowley was about to relaunch their literary debate, but was affronted with a mammoth yawn.

“You should really go home.”

Crowley whined, going limp beside Aaron and resting his head against his shoulder.

Aaron laughed, “just a week or so ago you’d be raring to go home.” Crowley responded with more whining. Aaron sighed, “maybe I want to leave.” Crowley stubbornly snaked his arms around Aaron. Aaron shook with laughter, trying to wiggle his arms free. “This is ridiculous! Crowley! Look, fine,” he pried Crowley’s hands away, holding them in front of him. Crowley looked at him, smirking triumphantly. “I’ll stay just a while longer, provided we actually revise.”

Crowley stopped smiling. He dragged himself around, making sure to smother every gesture in indignant reluctance as he started on a practice question. Aaron, surprised, pulled up his chair beside Crowley and did the same, for fairness’ sake. One paragraph later, and the belligerent huffs beside him had turned to a pattern of steady, even breaths. He looked up to see Crowley with his head in his folded arms, leant on the desk. His sleeping face was turned to him.

Aaron sighed. He found himself watching Crowley; admiring the way his hair fell in his face, which, for the first time, was an open book - there were no masks in sleep. He couldn’t catch himself quick enough, and the thought caught him off guard; he wished Crowley had fallen asleep on his shoulder, instead.

He nudged Crowley, but was unsurprised that this elicited no response. Crowley shivered, drawing his arms closer around himself, and Aaron laughed. He pulled Crowley’s coat over him like a blanket, and pushed the hair from his face. He paused, and then ran his hand through Crowley’s hair, just once, then folded his arms across his chest.

He sighed.

Aaron got home very late that night, after refusing to wake Crowley up for over an hour, unable to. Eventually, he knew he had to go, and he couldn’t leave Crowley hear alone. After a good deal of quiet nudging and poking, he managed to get Crowley awake enough to get home. He was very different, when drowsy; comfortable, in a way. He hugged Aaron goodbye, before he could think about what he was doing. He smelt like designer cologne, designer clothes, and designer cigarettes - so obnoxious.

Aaron was saved from a lecture from the growingly suspicious Brother Haniel by the benevolent deviousness of Gabriel, who had miraculously covered for him. Gabriel didn’t ask any questions, just smiled knowingly, and ruffled Aaron’s hair. He went to bed, warm, light, and smiling.

Crowley collapsed onto his bed, and maybe, for once, the fear that gripped him let go, just a little. He ran a hand through his hair. He smiled.


	25. World's First Openly Gay Pope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every spare moment was spent in each other’s company; they were inseparable. Once, Aaron had even called Crowley from home, under the guise of asking his opinion on something he’d written. He only returned the phone after receiving multiple very serious and loud threats to break his bedroom door down - Crowley heard the commotion, and hung up, laughing.

Exams continued - not that they lasted long; there were only five. English followed RS followed maths followed science. Thursday night - the eve of the last mock exam: french. Technically, it was two exams; reading and listening, but they were back to back, so it made little difference in the end. It loomed with all the towering force that Monsieur Adam could never provide - but Crowley and Aaron were unafraid.

Every spare moment was spent in each other’s company; they were inseparable. Once, Aaron had even called Crowley from home, under the guise of asking his opinion on something he’d written. He only returned the phone after receiving multiple very serious and loud threats to break his bedroom door down - Crowley heard the commotion, and hung up, laughing. Their time together was glittering lights and birdsong; the silence of Aaron’s absence rang out through Crowley’s spacious and jarringly empty flat. Aaron’s small and meticulous close quarters seemed only to shrink in on him without Crowley’s world-widening presence, as if together they could go anywhere, see anything - without him, what was left was captivity.

For the first time in either living memory, around eachother the ache at their centre faded; they had found their centre. Apart, it only grew. Like a fire, it threatened to consume them. It’s hard to identify homesickness when you don’t remember what home feels like. It felt like this - it felt hollow.

So, they found shelter in eachother, staying close; savouring every second as they slipped from them. Still, the question loomed, what happens next?

“So,” Aaron said, as they made their way to the library, “mocks are nearly over.”

“Mocks are nearly over,” Crowley repeated, gazing out the window at gathering grey clouds. They were squashed side by side at the back of the bus, and Crowley slouched with his feet up on the opposite seat, despite Aaron’s passive-aggressive little huffs and tuts. He leant his head against Aaron.

“And it looks like you think you’re going to pass them,” Aaron continued, watching him.

Crowley smirked, “I  _ know  _ I’m gonna  _ smash  _ them.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want to, you know, stay on, get the grades? Now you’ve put in all this work, after all.”

Crowley shrugged, “what use is that? I mean, I guess it could be bearable if I bunked PE-”

“I could allow that.”

Crowley laughed, “and didn’t have this bet nonsense.” He sighed, shifting in his seat. He remained decidedly pressed against Aaron, and continued to stare out the window, “I mean, now you’ve dragged me kicking and screaming from my normal, immoral, vapid world, and taught me the magnificent value of friendship and hard work, thus revealing my secret heart of gold…” He dropped the sarcastic lilt from his voice, “how do I go back to what I was before?”

Aaron sat up, causing Crowley to look up at him. “Are you joking?” asked Aaron, searching his face, “it sounded like you were.”

Crowley smiled softly, “I was - the whole friendship and heart of gold shit was a joke. But really,” he sat up too, so they were at each other’s eye level, “I don’t know what I’d do now - without you.”

There was a moment - a small, quiet exchange, in which all the noise of the world slipped away, and it was just them. Just for a second. Aaron blinked. He beamed, and looked around, embarrassment contributing partially to the warmth of his cheeks. He smiled at his lap, happily bouncing, just a little. He looked back to Crowley, who had returned to his slouched stare out the window, and all he could see was the back of his head.

Crowley buried his face in his scarf, smiling like a prat. Still, now, he couldn’t quite bear to look at Aaron’s sunbeam of a smile. He felt light, airy, stupid. When he felt Aaron’s hand touch his, he didn’t hesitate to hold it, didn’t draw away.

They stayed like this until they arrived at the library. Crowley, self conscious, stuffed his hands into his pockets as they made the short walk to the library.

Aaron skipped behind him to keep up. “Of course,” he said, “you will have to stay in school until we get our results in January to truly know if you’ve won.” Crowley stopped.

He turned to Aaron, mouth upturned in a grimace. Aaron’s smug smile dropped under his gaze. Crowley shook his head, slowly, “not a chance.”

Aaron held up his hands, forcing a smile, “I’ll let you skip PE?”

Crowley laughed dryly, “like you could stop me. I’ll come in on results day, alright? I’m not bloody sticking around until then. Waste of my time.” He started walking again.

“But-” Aaron followed after him, silently cursing Crowley’s long legs. “But if you do in fact lose, but you haven’t been in school for all that time, then how will you catch up for the final exams?”

Crowley stopped again, turning on his heel and groaning, head tipped back, “why do you care?” He rolled his head forward, raising an eyebrow at Aaron, “I’ve made it pretty clear I don’t need any O-levels.”

Aaron furrowed his brow, jutting out his chin, “yes you do! Maybe you don’t need a job for the money, but you need a purpose in life! And- and maybe one day that strange, slightly suspicious luck will all run out and then what?”

Crowley shrugged, “pretty unlikely. Besides, I’ll still have my good old friend the literature professor or academy award winning director or - I dunno - world’s first openly gay pope?”

Aaron frowned, “who’s that?” Crowley smiled at him, and he scoffed and folded his arms. “I’d never go into ordained ministry!” he said, defiantly.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t have a hope in hell.  _ I’d  _ make a better openly gay pope than you.”

“You wish!”

They tried to stare eachother down, and when that failed, they laughed. 

When the laughter cooled, Aaron’s glowing face became serious. “I’d miss you,” he said, “horribly. And I bet you’d miss me too.”

Crowley shrugged, “nah, I need a break. Get my evil back.”

Aaron folded his arms, “oh, like you really had any in the first place!”

Crowley pulled a face at him. “I’ve made it pretty clear I’d miss you, angel.” He looked around, shrinking his neck into his scarf. “Why are we still out here? It’s bloody freezing! C’mon… french.”

Little revision was done.


	26. Something Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They walked together. Normally, in such a public place, Crowley would have snaked his hand away. Not now. He gripped Aaron’s hand and stared; here was something he had lost. Never again.
> 
> \--
> 
> the french exam goes Wrong, with a capital W.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for descriptions of fire, and depiction of a panic attack.
> 
> I'm trying to stretch it out, but we're Really near the end, so expect like two more updates after this.

“You may now open your papers. You have one hour.” Piece of piss.

Crowley’s confidence with french grew by the day; it was less learning, and more remembering a life forgotten. If someone had told him he had spent a lifetime in Paris, with Aaron, he wouldn’t hesitate to believe them. It unfolded in his mind; stinking streets and glorious lights; breathtaking art and fearsome crowds; chaotic nights alone and quiet nights far from alone.

Crowley let this fantasy run away with itself as he lazily ticked and jotted down answers - he got it, it was fine. He thought about the places they’d go, what they’d be called, the interior, the people they’d meet - it came to him as if he were recalling a memory recounted so often the mental record was knackered; the details dedicated to memory; the pages spilling all over the place.

He looked up. Separating him from Aaron was a sea of students, their heads bent as if in prayer. He watched the back of Aaron’s head bob up and down as he paused to think, his frenzied pen tapping, how he tugged at the curls at the back of his head when he was really stuck.

Crowley bit his lip, smiling. Aaron, despite himself, was funny - it wasn't just because he was pretty, but that always helps. Crowley didn’t understand Aaron’s test anxiety; he was ethereally smart, knew enough for many lifetimes, and worked like a dog - so what was the problem?

Objectively, it made no sense, but he still felt for him. He didn’t exactly  _ pray _ for him, but he hoped that Aaron would be alright, in a way that felt more meaningful than hope; stronger. Aaron stopped tapping, and wrote.

Satisfied, Crowley returned to his paper. He turned to a large block of text, and decided to put aside his Parisian fantasies for a bit. Okay, focus.

_Je suis…_ Paris didn’t want to let go of him yet; still his mind wandered. They were adults now, pissed in a Paris pub and arguing over the nesting habits of great apes in fluent french. That was strange.  
  
_Je suis…_ Memories and fantasies churned inside him like a storm, his concentration whisked away by the wind. A war; a reign of terror; a fascinating little restaurant where they knew the pair of them - Aaron had payed.   
  
_Je suis…_ The words swam on the page, french grammar mingling with demonic chants and dead-language nonsense and ‘deep down inside, there was a spark of goodness in you...’   
  
_Je suis…_

_ Je suis…  _

_ Je suis…  _

“Fuck this.” Crowley surprised himself. He stood. He had been louder than he realised, and people were laughing. He marched to the front of the hall, slung his bag over his back, and walked out. “Waste of my time.”

He didn’t look back. He was too proud to look back. Had he looked back, he would have seen Aaron, staring at him, crestfallen. His gaze followed Crowley around the corner. He started tapping his pen against the table.

Nobody stopped Crowley. He was disqualified from the exam, obviously, but he didn’t see why he should care about that. He never did care about that. He never was here for that. He crumpled against a wall, safely hidden away. He breathed, in… out… in, out, in, out, in, in, in, in, out. He forgot how. 

Centuries began to unfold in his mind, every frame of the film of his life playing at once, a jumbled mess. From the chaos, the jarring, inexplicable, disjointed feeling he had born his whole life reared its head, and said, ‘I want to go home.’

Fuck knows where that was. If he had a spare thought, he’d have thought himself ridiculous; it was just some silly daydream, he could stop whenever.

It was more than that now. Paris was in the past; the images that flooded his mind now stretched for miles and centuries. He watched someone he knew - a friend, of sorts - desperately rescue book after book from a towering inferno, he gripped a ferocious black beast of a horse for dear life, he fell off said horse into the mud. There was an excitement, a terror, a danger, like nothing on Earth. 

Then - a different inferno. He was in a shop - a bookshop - as flames crackled around him. Desperate, he called out, looking for someone. Someone he needed. Aaron Ziraphale - no, no, it  _ was _ Aaron, but by a different name. He searched through the chaos, the flames shying from him like the Devil, and saw no sign of his friend. For G- for S- for  _ somebody’s _ sake - get me out of here.

“Crowley?” An angel stood over him, all golden light and ethereal beauty and pristine hand-me-down uniform. “Crowley, are you alright?” Aaron leant down, patting his shoulder.

The relentless flood of images faltered. He shook his head to disperse them, then nodded. Pushing against the wall, he got to his feet, and smiled at Aaron.

“You look like hell,” Aaron said, touching Crowley’s arm. He frowned, “are you sure you’re okay?”

Crowley shrugged. He opened his mouth, hoping something coherent would come out, and said, “just tired.”

Aaron scrutinised him for a moment, then nodded, “alright then. Well,” his hand slid down Crowley’s arm, and held his hand. “that’s exams all done. For now. Let’s go.”

They walked together. Normally, in such a public place, Crowley would have snaked his hand away. Not now. He gripped Aaron’s hand and stared; here was something he had lost. Never again.

Aaron smiled at him, and he looked down. He mumbled something. “Sorry?” Aaron stopped, looking at him.

“I want to go home,” said Crowley, as if it would make sense out in the open - as if Aaron has the answer.

Aaron’s shoulders dropped. “Oh- Well- I suppose that is your choice. You do look tired. It’s a shame, but if you-”

“No, no.” Crowley held up his hand, stopping Aaron, “I don’t-” he ran a hand through his hair, exasperated, “I don’t  _ mean  _ that. I don’t mean  _ there _ . I mean-” he threw up his arms, sighing, “I don’t know what I mean. It’s just- just this feeling? There’s this feeling and that’s what it feels like - like I want to go home. It’s weird.” Aaron laughed. Crowley tugged at his arm, “oi! I’m being serious! Hey!”

Aaron shook his head, “that’s anxiety!”

Crowley stopped, screwing up his face, “eh?”

Aaron nodded, smiling at him, “uh huh.” He swung their arms, “I’ve had that  _ all  _ my life.” He rolled his eyes, “I’d be in my own room and feel so homesick. It’s weird, I know.”

Crowley stared at him. He was pretty sure whatever the hell just happened to him was not anxiety. But, then, he hadn’t read a library worth of psychology books - so maybe that was it. Yeah. Just anxiety. Whatever.

They started walking again. Aaron was still giggling, shaking his head. He smiled up at Crowley, “so you’re anxious about the french exam?”

Crowley pulled a face, shrugging. “I mean, at least I know exactly how I did. I think I just…”

“Panicked under pressure?” Aaron suggested. Crowley paused, then nodded. “Yeah,” Aaron shrugged, “I know all about that. Although I’ll admit, I’ve never stood up in the middle of exam and said, ‘fudge this,’ so…”

Crowley snickered, “how loud was I?”

Aaron smiled, raising his eyebrows, “everyone heard. Everyone. I’d love to say I disapprove - and I do, oh, I’m so disappointed in you - but it was… rather funny, in an immature kind of way. I’m sure it’ll make everyone forget about that PE fiasco.”

Crowley grimaced, shaking his head, “can’t make me forget it.”

Aaron’s smile faded a little. “Yeah. True. Er.” He skipped, “but anyway, this means you’re stuck with me until June!”

Crowley frowned at him, tipping his head forward, “oh, come on. It’s just one exam, and you know I could wipe the floor with it, which is a miracle in itself. Where’s your sense of, I dunno, mercy and justice and that. Jesus principles.” Aaron smirked, shaking his head. Crowley rolled his eyes, “what, like  _ you  _ passed?”

Aaron’s smirk curdled into a guilty expression. He dropped the skip, lifting his shoulders up to his ears, “maybe.” He squirmed under Crowley’s cold stare, and soon gave in. “Okay, fine! If I pass french, then you lose. If I fail french-”

“Let’s define fail as less than a C.”

“Sure. Whatever. If I fail french, then we’ll call it quits.”

“Do you think you failed?”

Aaron smiled, “you’ll just have to wait and see - which means until results day, you’re all mine.”

Crowley laughed, and opened his mouth, then closed it, reconsidering. “Yeah. I am,” he said. He was about to say something else, when he was affronted by the unexpected appearance of the library. “Oh.”

“We walked all the way there,” Aaron said.

Crowley shrugged, and carried on. “You know,” he said, “now exams are over, we can skive off and chat without feeling guilty about it - not that I do, but I know how you are.”

Aaron rolled his eyes. “We should have a celebration! Yay, we get a break!”

Crowley stopped, pulling Aaron back. He grabbed his hair with his hands, “celebration!”

Aaron frowned, “what?”

Crowley shook his head, “I totally forgot.” He pulled Aaron’s arm around his, so they linked arms like schoolgirls. He dithered, looking around, and then dragged them down an avenue.

Aaron bounced to keep up, essentially trollied along. “Where are we going? What is this?” he asked.

Crowley looked at him, and slowed to a comfortable pace. He shrugged, “it’s, like, cyclical, you know?”

Aaron stared blankly at him, shaking his head, “no.”

Crowley shook his head, “ah, whatever. You’ll get it.”

They walked, Crowley scattered and Aaron perplexed, and he started to recognise the path. Although, he couldn’t be sure; a few turns here and there were entirely new to him. At a crossroads, Crowley stopped, looked around, and then sighed. He looked at Aaron, “okay, how do you get to the park?” Aaron laughed. “It’s that way, right?” Crowley nodded in the wrong direction, and Aaron laughed harder. Crowley frowned, “please, angel.”

Aaron stopped laughing. He beamed at Crowley, who didn’t look away for a good ten seconds. “You took the wrong turn ten minutes back.”

“God damn it!”

“Hey!”


	27. Come and See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you’re saying it’s definitely entirely legal?” Aaron pressed.  
> Crowley smiled like a snake, inspecting the label, “yeah, it’s all good. Besides, we can just think of it as our own little Holy Communion.” He threw up his arms, laughing, “there was bread, weren’t there?” Aaron folded his arms, leaning against a wall and trying his best to look unamused. He smiled.

“That wouldn’t’ve happened if I was driving or something, just so you know.”

Aaron nodded, sitting down beside Crowley on a park bench, “whatever you say.”

Crowley nudged him, “I just don’t walk places!”

Aaron raised his eyebrows, “I doubt you drive places either.”

Crowley floundered, then shrugged. He slouched in the bench, “whatever.”

Aaron looked around, “so… I’m still baffled.”

Crowley sat up, smiling, “cyclical!”

Aaron gave him a blank look, “you keep saying that, but it continues to be nonsense.”

Crowley held up his hand, “no it’s not, actually! It’s like a writing technique or something. The first scene,” he drew a circle in the air, “the last scene.”

“Ohhh,” Aaron nodded, “I see what you mean. Except,” he frowned, “typically, a cyclical writing technique is used to show that, in the end, nothing’s changed. Are we going our separate ways?”

“What? No, it’s used to show how much things  _ have _ changed!”

“And what do you mean the  _ last _ scene?” Aaron persisted.

Crowley sighed, pushing the hair from his eyes and leaning on the back of the bench in a way that brought him incidentally closer. “Maybe I mean the last scene before something new. For both of us. Together.”

Aaron stared at him, his face slowly curling into a smile. Crowley smiled back at him, then leaned back. He reached for his bag, and pulled out a brown paper bag.

He opened the bag, and held it out to Aaron, who peered inside and furrowed his brow. Bread?

The ducks, surprisingly observant creatures, began quacking and flapping from their pond a few feet away.

Aaron laughed, “this is your celebration?”

Crowley shrugged, “I didn’t see you as a party person.”

“I’m a cinema person, how about that?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, smiling wryly, “well, I’ll keep that in mind. I’m sorry for depriving you of the opportunity for our hands to suddenly meet in the popcorn, to the soundtrack of Titanic.”

Aaron laughed and shoved him, “oh, buzz off!”

Crowley began comically singing the song from Titanic as Aaron laughed, until he was interrupted by a goose pecking at the bread with its formidable toothed beak.   
Crowley yelped, and threw the bag far away from them, and into the pond. “Oh.” They watched as a gaggle of geese became a pack of dogs, ripping and tearing at paper and bread. “Shit.”

Crowley turned to Aaron, smiling sheepishly, “sorry.”

Aaron smiled, “it’s alright. I’m sure our hands dramatically touching in a bag of stale bread would be anticlimactic anyway.”

Crowley looked at him sideways, leaning his arms on the back of the bench. “I’ve got popcorn at home. And films - some of them compact discs, too. Biiiiiiiig TV. Huge. It’s basically cinema.”

Aaron turned to him, shuffling closer, “what films?”

Crowley smiled, tilting his head to look at him, “not the Sound of Music, that’s for sure.” He turned, facing Aaron. “Consider this part one of your end of the bet.”

Aaron folded his arms, “the bet you haven’t yet won?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, pulling Aaron’s arms apart, “as if you aren’t  _ dying  _ to see my super expensive gigantic flat.”

Aaron tutted, “where you live alone. I bet it’s a complete mess.”

Crowley shrugged, “come and see.”

 

* * *

  
  


“Well… it’s certainly got quite the lived in look,” Aaron said, as he stood peering into the half light of Crowley’s flat. Crowley rolled his eyes and stepped past him, clicking his fingers. “Oh, you have clapper lights?” asked Aaron.

Crowley looked back at him and shrugged, “I guess?” He glanced around the spacious living room, making sure he hadn’t forgotten to eradicate any humiliating detail. He smiled. He dragged Aaron by the hand to his plush white sofa and sat him down, patting his shoulder, “you wait here, look through the films, I’ll get those snacks. What’s celebratory movie night without cliché popcorn fiascoes?”

Aaron laughed, watching Crowley dash off to the kitchen. He turned his attention the the TV before him - it was huge, thin, and mounted on the wall. Surrounding it were sleek white shelves with tapes and DVDs - and significantly more potted plants than the average household. Aaron admired the sheer size of it, feeling only a little bitter over the vast contrast in their fates, despite being in essentially the same boat. It wasn’t fair.

He looked around. The interior was sparse and white, often interrupted by sudden dashes of green. He got up, looking at a glamourous plant with glistening leaves on the windowsill. All the plants seemed to sit as if holding their breath, vigilant and terrified. Or maybe he was just anxious; he couldn’t tell. He shrugged, and looked around the room again. One door was closed.

He glanced towards the kitchen, then sidled over. He pushed the door open, just a little, and peered inside. It was dark inside, the blinds heavily drawn, but he could just about make out a bed. He pushed it open further. The floor was completely obscured by clothes - and a few action figures. It was the messiest room in the flat by far; the most lived in. It was strange to see.

Crowley snaked between him and the room and made him jump. He yanked the door closed, “yeah, that place never sees a hoover. Not a nice sight.” Crowley laughed nervously, shrugging, “when you’ve got a whole flat, the bedroom is really just where the magic happens.”

Aaron frowned, “...magic?”

Crowley smiled, “sleep is the best kind of magic.”

Aaron rolled his eyes, stepping backwards. “So, where’s this popcorn?”

Crowley grinned, holding his arms behind his back, “okay, so… I lied about the popcorn. I don’t have any. But I have this,” he held up a bottle of red wine.

Aaron scowled, “we’re underage! How did you even get that?”

Crowley shrugged, “I just have it. It’s fucking ancient. And,” he stepped forward, wagging his finger in Aaron’s face, “not illegal! Buying it? Sure. But the age limit for drinking itself is more nuanced.”

“So you’re saying it’s definitely entirely legal?” Aaron pressed.

Crowley smiled like a snake, inspecting the label, “yeah, it’s all good. Besides, we can just think of it as our own little Holy Communion.” He threw up his arms, laughing, “there was bread, weren’t there?” Aaron folded his arms, leaning against a wall and trying his best to look unamused. He smiled.

Crowley grinned, putting the bottle down on the coffee table and turning to the films on the shelves, “hey did you pick one? I’ve got a tonne of recommendations - you like books? I like films.” He ran his finger along a row of DVDs, “thriller, drama, romance… I got it all.” He smirked, “I’ve got Titanic.” Aaron didn’t respond, and then he chuckled.

Crowley looked around to see Aaron holding up one of the neon poles that lit Crowley’s flat from their place casually leant against walls. He was beaming, staring at the rod of light with fascination.

Crowley slunk around him, unnoticed, and picked up another neon pole. He held it up like a sword, and approached. He said, in his best Vader impression, “so, we meet again, Obi Wan Ziraphale.”

Aaron stared at him for a moment, puzzled, then grinned. He copied Crowley’s stance and said, “all too soon, Darth Crowley.” They circled eachother in the middle of the room.

“There is power in the darkness, Ziraphale.” Crowley lifted his head dramatically, “come to the dark side. Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy.”

Aaron played along, “I know the light still beckons to you, old friend. I will not lose what is left of you.”

Crowley turned away darkly, “then you have left me no choice.” He waved his neon pole in the air, making a noise with his mouth.

They sparred, each stopping before their poles touched and making the noises. Crowley’s moves were suspiciously similar to Anakin Skywalker, and while Aaron had always felt a deep kinship with Luke, his Skywalker moves left much to be desired, as he didn’t have neon poles lying around so as to spend hours pretending to be a Jedi.   
  
They ducked and dived, nyooming and whooshing, circling and spinning. Aaron paused, momentarily, to watch Crowley - unsure whether to laugh or clap. That was when they reached the end of their cables, which tangled between their feet and pulled the pair of them to the ground. Aaron landed on top of Crowley.

He pushed up, his hands on either side of Crowley’s head. They stared at eachother, jumped out of rhythm, surprised. They were both breathing heavily, and the soft light of the poles stripped Crowley of all his sharp angles and stark intimidation. He looked soft, almost ethereal.

Crowley laughed first, a childish laugh laced with nervousness that shook his chest. It took a moment to shake Aaron from his trance, and then he laughed. He fell sideways, landing beside Crowley on his outstretched arm. They lay beside eachother, among the wires and neon poles, as the laughter spent itself and petered out. Crowley turned on his side, looking at Aaron, who smiled at him. 

He opened his mouth. He was going to say something. He was going to say it. He closed his mouth. He stared at him, chewing on the inside of his lip, as the smile on Aaron’s face faded to confusion. Then, Crowley raised his eyebrows, “so, what film?”

Aaron closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the carpet. This was becoming exhausting. Crowley nudged him with his arm. He poked him in the side, “any time today, angel.”

Aaron got up, “let me see what you’ve got.” Crowley sat up and watched him move to the shelves and start going through the rows of films. His heart was still in his mouth. He swallowed. He felt as if he had upset him, somehow - bad. Very bad.

He climbed onto the sofa, watching Aaron tut and mutter as he opened the bottle, downing a good portion of it. Aaron sighed, “you really love action films.” He stopped, pulling a tape from the shelf, “ooh, Romeo and Juliet. That’s surprising.”

Crowley shrugged, “it’s a classic. And it’s got some great action scenes. I aspire to be Tybalt Capulet.”

Aaron took the tape and sat down next to Crowley, “I always saw you as more of a Romeo.”

Crowley frowned, “how?”

Aaron shrugged, looking around, “depressive, melodramatic, artsy,  _ weird  _ friends… hmm… you know.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, crossing one leg over the other, “then who are you?” Aaron turned to him, and just smiled.

He held up the tape, “now how do we play this?”

Crowley rolled his eyes and took the tape from Aaron, shoving the bottle into his hands. He knelt in front of the shelving unit where the VCR was kept. Then, he sat up, and turned back to Aaron, who stared at the bottle. “Well? Drink some.”

Aaron pulled a face, “I’m still unsure.”

Crowley sighed, “you’ll like it, I promise.” He turned back to the VCR. “You’re a wine person, I can sense it.”

Aaron tentatively lifted the bottle to his lips and took a sip. He grimaced. He took another sip. And another. Another. “This is odd.”

Crowley laughed, pressed a button, and then fell back on the sofa beside Aaron, his arms spread over the back. “You like it?”

“Ehhhh…” Aaron took another sip. Crowley took the bottle from him, put it to his lips and threw his head back, and then returned it. Aaron stared at him, “are you trying to get drunk or something?”

Crowley smirked at him, “it took you this long to notice I’m a functional alcoholic?”

Aaron’s mouth formed an O, “you’re functional?”

They laughed and Crowley shoved him, but they stopped when the film came on. Aaron leant back, his head touching Crowley’s arm, and he didn’t mind. They watched Romeo and Juliet, in all its ridiculous glory, and both internally swore they’d never end up like that. Aaron leant into Crowley, whose arm came down around his shoulder. They both drank a lot.

Crowley was still thinking about the incident in the exam - that feeling wasn’t new, and neither were the images he’d seen. It was all painfully familiar. But that feeling - that longing for something lost - he didn’t feel it now. Now, his flat filled with noise and the warmth of someone else, now, with Aaron beside him, making comments about the details of Romeo and Juliet. Now, with Aaron. That felt like home. Aaron felt like home.

When the film ended, Crowley turned it off before it could devolve to static, and Aaron sniffed, pushing up his glasses to wipe his eyes. “Gets me every time,” he said, “people dismiss it as trashy, but that’s what Shakespeare was. I should know. I- I should know because- because…” Confused, he waved away the thought with a hand, then looked at Crowley. He smiled, “are you crying?”

Crowley sniffed, wiping his eyes, “Course. What am I? Heartless?” He smiled, shifting to face Aaron, “I’m not Romeo though. Devilishly handsome? Yes. But Romeo’s a mess.”

Aaron laughed uproariously, shoving Crowley, “like you’re not!”

Crowley shook his head, “no! I’m not! Not on that level. No way. You’re Romeo.”

Aaron stopped, looking at him, his drunken mind visibly working for something to say. He giggled. “Then who are you?”

Crowley shrugged. He checked his watch, “we’d still be at the library about now.”

Aaron turned, folding up one leg, “well, what now? Another film?”

Crowley smiled, “what about a game?”

Aaron stared at him, “I’ve never seen Saw, so I could be wrong, but please let this be dominoes, and not a serial killer kind of game.”

Crowley frowned, then laughed, “you’re joking, right? No!” He picked up the bottle, peering inside, “a drinking game.”

Aaron, naively curious, raised his eyebrows, “what does that entail?”

Crowley shrugged, waving the bottle around and listening to it slosh. He tried to ignore the two empty bottles hidden behind the coffee table. “I mean, it could go either way. But I thought, like, we’ve just finished all those ruddy exams. And, let’s face it, we’re wasted. We quiz eachother; you get it wrong, you drink, I get it wrong, I drink.”

Aaron laughed, “that’s the swottiest drinking game ever!”

Crowley rolled his eyes, leaning back, “I think we’re reaching a middle ground between my bad and your good. Revision drinking games,” he lifted the bottle to Aaron, “now that’s some fuckin’ middle ground.”

Two bottles and a revision guide’s worth of questions on science, language, and religion later, the pair were a mess. Crowley sat with his legs across Aaron’s lap, who had a terrible fit of hiccups.  
  
“Okay…” Crowley said, leaning his head back, “my turn…” Hiccup. “What is the- no, we did that.” Hiccup. “How about-” Hiccup. “No…” Hiccup. He waded through the swampy recesses of his mind for some kind of trivia he hadn’t yet dredged up. Hiccup. “For fuck’s sake, will you stop that!”

“Sorry - hic - I can’t!” Aaron laughed.

Crowley sighed, running his hands through his hair, “hold your breath!” He looked up, “actually, don’t, you’ll pro’lly forget how to breathe.”  
  
“H- hic - hey!” 

They laughed, and then Crowley shoved Aaron, smiling triumphantly, “dolphins!”

Aaron stared at him blankly, “what?”

“What are they?” Crowley smirked, “that’s your question.”

Aaron frowned, confused. “Type of fish?”

“Ha!” Crowley shoved the bottle into Aaron’s hands, “‘snot! ‘Snot a fish! ‘S your actual mammal!”

Aaron tutted, sloshing the bottle about, “what’s the diff’rence?”

Crowley shrugged, “summin about their young?”

Aaron made a sound like a horn, “not good enough!” He shoved the bottle at Crowley, who scowled.

“You first, cheater!”

Aaron rolled his eyes, taking a sip and conscientiously wiping the bottle mouth, “I’d never cheat.”

Crowley faked a laugh, drinking. He put on a squeaky voice, “ __a little cheating never hurt anyone!”  
  
Aaron sighed, “okay, whatever, you got me. Your turn.”

“Uh? Oh yeah,” Crowley crossed his legs, folding his hands behind his head as he thought. “Got it!” He grinned, jumping up and folding his legs under himself, leaning on the back of the sofa beside Aaron, “what do angels look like?”

Aaron frowned, “you know the answer to that one, do you?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, “don’t you?”

Aaron sighed, slouching, “I mean… it’s compli- com- not simple. There’s many diff’rent intrepidations.”

“What?”

“You know, like. Points of view.”

“Interpretations.”

“Sod off.” Aaron turned, hugging his knee. “But, yeah. They all kinda agree though, angels look motherflipping terrifying… uh…” 

Crowley snorted. He looked at Aaron, “but?”

Aaron frowned, “but- But I think- if an angel  _ wanted  _ to look nice. They could. And- and I guess they all look different, like people. You know? Angels and people aren’t that diff’rent, I s’pose.”

Crowley watched him, “what’s the difference?”

Aaron pulled a face at him, “one question at a time, cheater!” He looked down at his knee, tapping it with a finger, “no, I don’t know, I guess. I think- I  _ think  _ angels look very… odd, but prob’ly choose not to. Look like that, I mean.” He looked up, “what do you think angels look like?”

“You.” Crowley’s face was close enough to feel Aaron’s small gasp. They stared at eachother. Aaron hiccuped.

Crowley looked down, lest he laugh and ruin the moment. “I mean,” he looked up again, “you’re beautiful. I’ve told you that. And I hate it. And- and I don’t understand it, but… Well, this homesick thing. I don’t have it around you. It’s so annoying.” His hair fell in his eyes, and he tried and failed to flick it away. “You’re so…  _ you _ , but either way, you feel so right. Either way, I… uh… This is embarrassing. What I mean is, I…”

Aaron reached up, and ran his hand through Crowley’s hair, pushing it out of his face. Crowley stopped. Aaron pushed his hand through his hair again, and Crowley leant into the touch. Aaron’s hand came to rest at the base of Crowley’s skull, and he didn’t take it away. “I love you,” Crowley said. It was quiet, barely audible. It didn’t need to be.

He kept his eyes on Aaron, who was smiling softly, “took you a ruddy long time enough to figure that out.”

Crowley frowned, confused, “what? I- I knew, for, like, ages!” He paused, “what?” Aaron laughed. “You’re not- you’re not freaking out? Leviticus, and that?”

Aaron shrugged, “I’ve been ‘freaking out’ for the past week. Just, quietly. Let me have a break, alright? I prefer the book of Jedediah, anyway.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley raised his eyebrows, “what that one say?”

Aaron laughed, “something about honesty. I don’t think I really got it, until now.” He looked down, and then back up, “do you want to kiss me?”

Crowley stared at him, still trying to fathom the situation, “do you?”

Aaron’s eyes dropped to Crowley’s lips. They both leant in. Eyes closed. Then, Crowley stopped, holding a finger up between them. Aaron looked at him. He smiled, “don’t hiccup.”

Aaron rolled his eyes, and kissed him. They kissed, and it was like years of waiting had finally come to an end. They kissed, and it was like the storm had finally passed, after long, cold nights in the darkness, and they could go home at last. They kissed, and centuries collapsed around them. The world could end, at that moment, and they wouldn’t notice.

Aaron pressed his forehead to Crowley’s, breathing. Just breathing. Just breathe. “Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada! its over. i might write a sequel where they figure out theyre not human and that, but thatll be after gcses and mayb writing smth thats not fanfic.
> 
> heres where you can read it on google docs (which is better imho) theres a few small differences and i might go thru and edit th google version to make it better and that.   
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/137hUX8syfuCvvU5RYBX9h2Cp9KYSy7RVJSK1-4NM59U/edit?usp=sharing


End file.
